Through A Mirror Darkly
by labrat8355
Summary: When faith and hope are compromised, only love can accept the challenge from the encroaching darkness. First RC then EC eventually. All three learn to regret their actions.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

My story is derived in the main from _Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera_ movie, with a generous mix of Gaston Leroux and his inferences to real-life families and events, and a dash of the Kopit/Yeston Phantom movie. I have not read Susan Kay's **Phantom** but may subconsciously incorporate aspics from reading other's descriptions of it. Since it is being republished, I may break down and read it, adding more elements. As disclaimer, I do not own any of the above copyrighted material; they own me.

The story begins in 1871 as Christine and Raoul leave the lair after their confrontation with the Phantom. I choose not to deal with the deposition of the Emperor and the Franco-Prussian War but admire those writers who have incorporated it wonderfully. Napoleon III can have a few more years on the throne.

The major plot devices for this story were outlined several months ago; it's time for it to see the light of day. While this is E/C, which is the kiss of death for some readers, I wish to explore how these characters move beyond the lair into a more workable frame of mind without totally losing their core.


	2. Chapter 2

**Swear Never To Tell**

Their journey out of the lair had assumed all the qualities of a waking dream in its profound disconnect from reality. Silence now reigned in this overthrown kingdom, where darkness no longer ruled but neither had light truly ascended. Christine grasped Raoul's wrist fiercely as she mechanically pulled him up through the five cellar levels, never looking back at him to see if he was still attached to her. He did not protest, so physically and emotionally drained was he from his ordeal at the hands of a madman. The torch she confiscated from its sconce after leaving the boat exposed the dank, vermin-infested reality of the corridors but she never so much as flinched at the monstrous, scurrying rats or moisture-laden cobwebs. Raoul stirred himself just enough to voice his concern that the filthy uneven pavers were surely lacerating her feet, now barely clad by once white slippers. The hem of her dress was, of course, disgusting. Christine did not speak or even turn to acknowledge his remark. They continued upward.

After a near eternity of silence, she stopped, releasing her death grip on his now aching wrist and inserted the torch in the sconce beside the two-way mirror. At the view behind the mirror, Raoul's astonishment spun to warranted anger.

_This is Carlotta's dressing room where I visited her on the Gala night. While I hammered on her locked door, that monster took her through this mirror._

Christine snatched the right rim of the mirror, straining to pull it to the side. When it would not budge, she exerted a second and greater force, breaking most of her fingernails in the bargain. Pushing Raoul into the room, she observed with muted surprise its unexpected _tidiness_. Obviously, no one in authority yet knew of the secret mirror. Otherwise, Carlotta's possessions unquestionably would have been strewn everywhere.

The odor of burning timber filled Christine's nostrils and at last broke through her shell of isolation.

"Raoul, we're not safe here."

Raoul started at hearing her first words since deserting the lair.

"Yes, we must leave. Christine, when we reach the outside of the opera there likely will be a magistrate on the scene wishing to take our statements…" Her stony expression compelled the rest of his words to die unspoken.

"I will tell them that I have no memory of subsequent events after walking on the stage tonight, that you found me in the fifth cellar wandering in a dazed condition. I will lay it at the feet of the Phantom and his dark practice of the art of mesmerism. A thorough search for him by you throughout the lair proved futile, suggesting that he escaped. You will corroborate my statement." Christine looked ghastly in that dirty wedding gown with her curls in a wild riot but she held herself as regally as a queen, commanding unquestioning submission from her vassal.

"Christine, what you suggest is perjury." Christine's willingness to deceive was a new development in their relationship. _Or perhaps not so new_. She had asked him to keep their engagement a secret. He had asked her to bait the trap for the Phantom in _Don Juan Triumphant_.

"He could have killed you regardless of my choice. Instead, he set us both free. All he asked in return was for us to keep his secret. Has it occurred to you, Raoul, than honor is a notion more complex than you imagined?" Christine flashing dark eyes accused him, challenging his aristocratic code of conduct. Being a nobleman had not mattered greatly in that lair.

"Christine, I…"

"Raoul, swear to me on my soul never to tell his secret!" Christine hissed the words softly but the mounting hysteria behind them was unmistakable.

"Christine, what you ask…"

"Raoul, if you do not swear this, I will hunt him down and allow the mob do its worst to him and me."

"I swear, Christine," he whispered, feeling incapable of refusing her. "We must leave now!"

As he turned towards the door, she dashed back to the mirror and slammed it shut with all of her might. The glass nearly broke in its frame.

They escaped through the now-empty stables, threading their way to the front of the Populaire through carriages, horse teams, and the horse-drawn steamers from the _Brigade des Sapeurs-Pompiers de Paris_. The firemen were dragging the water hoses though the opera house in a valiant effort to douse the flames.

Firmin and Andre were at foot of the opera house, shouting instructions to the firemen and trying desperately to calm hysterical employees and subscribers. Both men's clothing were in disarray and wet due to an unfortunate incident with one of the hoses. Firman kept running his fingers through his long damp hair to keep it out of his face while Andre nervously clutched at his stomach. At their side was a gentlemean obviously in some official capacity with a notepad and pencil.

As Christine and Raoul approached the managers, the crowd parted without hesitation, allowing them passage as if they were the Red Sea and the young couple was escaping the Pharoah. Raoul had expected scandalized curiousity over Christine; after all she had been kidnapped and hurled through the trapdoor by the Phantom earlier that evening. But the sly whispers on either side of them were crueler than he had imagined, entertaining salacious comments about the wedding dress. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks. Christine seemed oblivious.

The officious gentleman broke off his conversation with the managers to approach Christine.

"Mlle. Daaé, may I introduce myself? I am M. Faure, the examining magistrate assigned to this case. I wish to speak to you regarding tonight's events." M. Faure was a small, well-groomed man in his early forties with uncomfortably discerning eyes. He took in Christine's attire and kept his opinion to himself. "Could you tell me what transpired during and after the performance?"

Christine squared her shoulders and repeated her fabricated tale. M. Faure asked many questions, even repeating earlier ones, but she held to her story, when necessary, pleading no memory of events.

Raoul grew impatient. She was a brave girl but this night had been hell and she couldn't possibly hold out much longer.

"M. Faure, I believe my fiancée has answered your questions to the fullest. As far as I can attest events occurred as she has stated. Please, I must get her to my father's, the Comte the Chagny, residence before she collapses." Raoul felt the magistrate needed to be reminded of the de Chagny name and its intimidating political cache.

Christine shivered. Her dress barely covered her shoulders, offering no protection againt the coolness of the early spring night. Raoul was little better off in his thin torn shirt. She had little sleep for days before _Don Juan Triumphant_ and had not been able to hold down any food since yesterday.

M. Faure met Raoul's determined glare with a slight shrug. _The aristocracy and their high-handed ways._ If Mlle. Daaé preferred to lie for a madman, he wished her _bonne chance_ in her future marriage. She would need it. As far as he knew, the only casualty was M. Ubaldo Piangi and he had already received conflicting statements on that account. Otherwise, the managers were up to their eyebrows in bruised subscribers and a serious loss of property. The music lover in him regretted the damage to the Populaire but the Republican in him said to hell with them all.

"Very well, Monsieur le Vicomte, I will recuse Mlle. Daaé and you from any further questions."

Raoul bent down to Christine's ear, "Wait, I will attend to our carriage," and strode toward the bedlam outside the stables. He spent some minutes talking to his driver and groomsman, helping them extract his brougham and horses from the chaos.

She watched but paid no attention. This night had witnessed her universe shattering into a million pieces yet somehow reassembling into something as beautiful and enduring as a diamond. Little Lotte truly knew nothing while Christine Daaé learned everything from two kisses that transformed her existence and offered endless possibilities. Its potential, however, could not vanquish her genuine fear for the safety of her Angel of Music. It was not enough that he love her; he had to love himself enough to fight for his own physical and emotional existence outside that prison of his mind. The key lay within his reach, not hers. His love for her would uphold his newfound humanity. Her love for him would test her faith.

Raoul jumped off the driver's seat and opened to door to the carriage to hand her in. He had retrieved a clean blanket from the stables and wrapped her snugly in it.

"Christine, we are going to my parent's residence…" Christine leaned against him as the wheels began to turn. _Hmm, we are going to the family townhouse in the Faubourg Saint-Germaine with his parents away? I should not; it is not proper…_ She laid her head on his shoulder for comfort; his words became buzzing sounds in her ears that eventually faded into nothingness.

"Christine, we are driving to the chateau in Fleury-sur-Andelle immediately. I will not wait for the tomorrow's train; I must get you out of Paris tonight for your own safety. My love, I am sorry to burden you with such a long, hard journey after all of your suffering. Mother will know what to do." Raoul heard Christine's steady breathing and tightened his embrace around her, pressing gentle kisses on her forehead as she slept.

_She sensed the mob was threatening. Their shouts were becoming increasingly louder. Grabbing her Angel's hand, she pulled him through the corridors of the lair only to run into blind alleys. Weeping with frustration, she tried another direction and another. They did not have much time; the mob was getting ever closer and her strength was near its end. She glanced back—her Angel had slipped from her grasp, vanishing into the mists rising from the underground lake. Screams, her screams, echoed throughout the five levels. _

Christine woke with a jerk, barely able to transform the shriek on her lips to a moan. Someone was holding her tightly and shushing her. _Who, where? _Raoul, of course She realized the carriage had come to a stop. _Where they at the townhouse already?_ She had fallen asleep. She would ask Raoul to return for Mme Giry and Meg. It would serve the dual purpose of providing the mother and daughter needed refuge and her suitable chaperonage.

_But this was too dark. Where were the gaslights of Paris? Where were the fashionable houses of the Saint-Germaine? _

"Raoul where are we?" Though still warmly wrapped in the blanket she felt an icy chill radiate through her veins. Something was wrong.

"Christine, we have stopped at a stage inn to change horses. My family boards horses at various stages for occasions when train travel is not desirable. We have driven for three hours and this team is exhausted." Raoul had been happy to allow her rest but it had been painfully obvious that her dreams were troubling.

"We are three hours away from Paris? How can that be? Where are we goi…" _He said to the family residence. Oh my God, he meant the chateau._

"Christine, you will be safe at the chateau. I can better protect you there. Mother will see that you are well tended. I only wish that Father could greet you. You recall Mother informed me that he had recently left for America on family business and would not be back for several months. You will adore the chateau, Christine; it is so lovely and peaceful…" Raoul had hoped his description of an idyllic way of life would put her at ease but instead he saw fear heighten in her eyes. _My poor Lotte, even the one hundred-kilometer distance from Paris is not enough to reassure you._

_I cannot be this far away from Paris. Angel will not know where I am. _ Christine inhaled deep breaths to regain her composure. Fear and doubt began its assault upon her reason. Had she made the wrong decision in leaving the opera house with Raoul? So much had occurred and so many matters had yet to be settled. Her ability to reflect, to resolve was undermined by the weakness in her body. _When we arrive at the chateau, I will convince Raoul to put me on the train back to Paris. I cannot be this far away._

For Christine, sleep was now unthinkable. Raoul made several attempts at conversation only to be rebuffed with silence. Her mind spent the rest of the journey in a desperate struggle to keep her emotions from consuming her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wandering Child, So Lost, So Helpless**

Madeleine de Chagny was tastefully arranging fresh-cut flowers in an urn in the foyer when she heard the commotion of a horse team pulling up to the front entry. She was not expecting visitors at such an early hour but welcomed the diversion. With her husband and son away, life had become a little too sedate at the chateau. She was seriously contemplating an excursion to Paris to reconnect with old friends and to investigate her son's presumed engagement to an opera-singer. Raoul, at least, had been honorable in writing to her of his intended nuptials but unsolicited correspondence from acquaintances had filled in the more unsavory details.

The Contesse retreated to tidy up and allow the butler to attend to the visitors. However, that action was forestalled by Raoul's unceremoniously flinging open the door and escorting a young woman into the foyer. Madame allowed her face to register one look of genuine shock before schooling it back into some semblance of aristocratic gentility.

Both Raoul and the girl looked dreadful. He seemed to be wearing formal dress pants and a shirt but his clothing was in disarray and his shirt torn. His hair was tousled and there appeared to be red marks around his neck and wrists. The Contesse made a mental note to contact the doctor and have those addressed. _What had happened to her child?_

And the girl? The Contesse leapt to the inevitable conclusion that this must be the opera-singer, fiancée, Mlle. Christine Daaé. But why was the girl wearing a filthy wedding dress? Madame took a moment to study the girl's form. She clearly was a beauty, surprisingly tall and impossibly slender. Her nimbus of mahogany ringlets nearly reached her waist and was ideally matched to her enormous, dark brown eyes and flawless ivory complexion. The face itself was a vision of beautiful angular lines from the curve of her jaw to her high cheekbones to the delicate arch of her perfect brows. The only discordant element, which enhanced her beauty rather distracted from it, was the lushness of her lips.

"Mother, I have brought Christine here for her safety. Explanations must wait for later."

Madame allowed prudence to temper her inquisitiveness. "Raoul, she looks beyond exhaustion as do you. Bed rest for both of you and then I shall wish for a doctor to look at the rash on your neck and wrists and well as the bruises on her right wrist. I will take her to her room and have an upstairs maid attend her."

Raoul nodded his assent. He trusted his mother as he trusted himself to see to Christine's proper care. True, he was exhausted.

The Contesse waved him off to his room as she gently guided Christine to hers. The girl had yet to speak and moved like an automaton at Madame's behest. Jeanne, the upstairs maid, grew round-eyed at the sight of the petite mademoiselle in a sodden wedding dress but snapped to attention when ordered by her mistress to fetch a nightgown from her boudoir.

Attempting to break the unnatural silence between them, Madame made a stab at ordinary conversation. "Mlle. Daae, Jeanne will have a fresh nightgown for you momentarily. You and I are of a similar height so it will answer the purpose for the short term. Ah, here, she has returned. Jeanne, unbutton the Mademoiselle's dress"

Christine's first demonstration of emotion since entering the chateau baffled the Contesse. The girl actually panicked and back into a corner of the room to escape Jeanne. Madame signaled Jeanne to approach her but the Christine kept pushing the maid away.

"Jeanne, fetch Marthe at once. You cannot do this alone." The Contesse's heart grieved at the sight of the girl, looking for all the world like a wounded and desperate animal, her back plastered to the corner.

Jeanne returned with the Contesse's personal maid and both looked to Madame for instruction.

"Approach her slowly, handle her gently, but realize she may oppose your efforts."

Christine pushed them away at first, but exhaustion soon robbed her of any ability to continue the resistance. She allowed the maids to strip off the dress, weeping and murmuring "no" throughout the ordeal. Once in the nightgown, she was guided to the bed and tucked under the covers. The Contesse pulled a chair beside the bed and stayed with the girl until her sobbing had abated and she was captured by an uneasy sleep.

_Child, I can remember being ridiculously young like you, weeping over the cruelties of the world. What did the world do to you?_

Raoul slept through the rest of the day and night, waking the next morning. After attending his personal grooming, he sought out Jeanne for news of Christine. Upon learning that she was still resting, he proceeded to the dining room to join his mother for breakfast.

The Contesse had ordered a hearty breakfast on the assumption that a ravenous Christine and Raoul would surely be joining her. When her son made a lone appearance, she was secretly pleased. This issue needed to be discussed out of the girl's earshot.

"Raoul, it is good to see you rested. I must ask the question. Yesterday, was I introduced to Mlle. Christine Daae or the Vicontesse de Chagny?" Madame knew full well that Raoul could not contract a civil marriage under the age of twenty-five without parental consent, much less a Catholic wedding which required presentation of a civil license. Just the act of venting her spleen improved her digestion.

The Vicomte de Chagny grimly kissed his mother's cheek, noting once again that he would not be spared from her forthright speech.

"We are not married, Mother but with your permission, that will be rectified as soon as Christine is able."

Spiriting Christine away was but one element of his plan to shield her; binding her in marriage would serve as another layer of protection from _him_, assuming he was still alive and able to pursue her. Raoul had that monster at his sword tip once before and let him go at Christine's insistence; he would never again demonstrate such mercy if given the opportunity.

The Contesse attentively examined her son's face for clues beyond his words. Her child was not a boy anymore; he looked years older and she was surprised to see an obstinate set of his jaw that she had so often seen in her own mirror. _What events had turned her son into a man but his fiancée into a living ghost?_

"Raoul, I cannot force an explanation from you. But as your mother and as Christine's future mother, I should know what I face."

_Damn it._ Raoul had no wish to acknowledge the trueness of his mother's reasoning, but he desired her aid with Christine. The hell they had endured would not be forgotten easily and his fiancée likely was still vulnerable to its repercussions. Yes, he would break his promise to Christine and tell his mother.

Madame's food grew cold on her plate, as her eyes never wavered from her son. The most inventive writer of fiction could not have concocted such an insane tale of a fiend whose mask hid a hideously scarred face, a failed abduction, and the burning of the opera house. Nevertheless, her warmth and pride at her brave son's actions knew no bounds. How pleased his father would be of him! Still, there was the issue of the object of his rescue being a foreign commoner and a scandal-laden opera-singer. This might not be so pleasing to his father. She decided against bringing up the issue of the wedding dress. This was a piece of the puzzle that did not fit Raoul's explanation. _Why did the girl resist taking off a dress intended for a wedding with a madman?_

She signaled the footman to bring her a fresh plate of food and turned to Raoul, "Thank you for your honesty. Raoul, I will arrange for clothing for her. Marthe can alter some of my dresses, while I arrange for additional purchases in the village. Later, we will complete her wardrobe in Rouen as I suspect neither of you wish to return to Paris in the near future."

Raoul sighed his relief. For all her bluntness, his mother, was at heart, kind and generous, particularly to those less fortunate. He knew she frequently performed acts of charity that she thought were secret but somehow the recipient would slip a word to him about her benevolence. Of course, he could depend on her.

Christine's sleeping for a second day troubled the Contesse but she took great care to shield Raoul from her concern. She, instead, calmed his uneasiness that something might be amiss with the girl. It became obvious to the whole household that her son loved the petite mademoiselle very much; he was constantly instructing Jeanne to check on her progress and spending much of his time in a chair outside her boudoir. Madame, by dint of cajoling and browbeating, was able to extract him long enough for meals, warning him that he had better keep his strength if he intended to take a wife. It was during these times, that Raoul would speak glowingly of Christine's character and talent. The Contesse smile indulgently at her only child, privately wishing she knew what the girl was thinking. The wedding dress was still a riddle to be solved.

Lunch on that second day was interrupted by a frantic Jeanne.

"Madame, the mademoiselle is awake but she is shivering uncontrollably." Raoul bolted to her room while the Contesse followed at an unaccustomed pace. Placing her hand to Christine's forehead, she berated her earlier carelessness. The girl was on fire with fever and beginning to cough. She must act quickly.

"Jeanne, instruct the coachman to fetch the doctor with all haste, then send Marthe to me. Raoul, go to Madame Terreux for towels and basins. Fill the basins with water. I am anticipating the doctor's first instructions. The maids will wrap her in cool towels to bring her fever down."

In short order, the housekeeper, returned with Raoul, both carrying the requested items. Madame nodded to her housekeeper, confident in her ability to handle sickbed issues. Mme. Terreux issued sharp orders to Jeanne and Marthe concerning the proper wrapping of a fevered body. She had seen these symptom many times before and had little faith that any doctor could improve upon her treatment, thus emboldening her to request a private audience with her mistress.

"Madame la Contesse, Monsieur le Docteur will only confirmed what I know from experience. May I have permission to brew a healing tea for the petite mademoiselle? Rest assured it will not harm her or interfere with the doctor's treatment. In the past I have had considerable success with it, as opposed to the results I have seen from our so-called "educated" doctors."

"Mme. Terreux, if you are certain it will not harm her, you have my permission." The Contesse knew her housekeeper to be most able, and greatly experienced in matters of illnesses.

Within the hour, Dr. Baumgartner had arrived. Upon feeling her cheek, he looked approvingly at the Contesse for her swift action in attempting to reduce the fever. As he listened to Christine's chest, he was distressed to hear a rasping sound in her lungs and note her elevated heartbeat.

"Mademoiselle, are you experiencing pain and nausea?"

Christine nodded mutely. Her chest was burning each time she coughed and she was fighting the urge to retch.

The doctor frowned and motioned the Contesse and Vicomte to join him outside the room. "The mademoiselle is exhibiting symptoms of lung fever—pneumonia. The best we can hope is to treat the symptoms with laudanum; there is no treatment for the infection. If she is strong enough, she will survive. On the other hand, there is a risk she may succumb from this disease or from complications such as brain fever. I will leave the laudanum with a script on her nightstand and instruct the maid on proper dosing. Please have the maid continue with the cooling towels until her fever breaks or …," the doctor trailed off not wishing to think of the alternative for such a beautiful young woman.

Raoul's hands involuntarily balled into fists of anger. He would not accept a possible death sentence for Christine. Snapping at the doctor he growled, "I wish to send for another doctor from Rouen---no, our doctor in Paris. There must be something else that can be done."

The doctor looked sympathetically at the young man but shrugged his opinion. "Monsieur le Vicomte, you are entitled to summon any medical assistance you deem necessary, but Mlle. Daaé will have either have survived or succumbed to the critical stage of the disease before a physician from Paris can arrive and establish the same treatment I have already prescribed. It could be as long as four days until her fever abates."

Raoul's gentle eyes blazed with fury at the doctor. The Contesse tugged at his arm, "Raoul, allow the doctor to attend Christine and instruct Jeanne on dosage." As the doctor reentered the sickroom, Madame clasped Raoul's shoulders with both hands, gazing at him with sympathy and understanding. He bent down and wept on her shoulder.

The de Chagny household soon found itself revolving around the gravely ill Christine Daaé. Raoul insisted upon moving from the hallway to her bedside; his mother did not have the heart to deny him, even with the impropriety of his actions. Besides, she knew he would not have heeded her anyway. Jeanne, Marthe, and Mme. Terreux rotated the sickroom duties of applying cooling towels, meting out doses of laudanum, and in Mme. Terreux's case, coaxing the healing tea of garlic, honey, and lemon down her throat. For all her distrust of trained physicians, the housekeeper was grateful that Dr. Baumgartner's provision of the opiate made it possible for Christine to hold the brew on her stomach. The housekeeper's increasing worry over the petite mademoiselle's deteriorating condition provoked her to add silent prayers to the Virgin Mary with every dose.

On the morning of the fifth day since the couple's arrival, Jeanne quietly entered the sickroom for Christine's morning dose of laudanum. Monsieur le Vicomte was sprawled in his chair, overcome by exhaustion, while the petite mademoiselle was obviously consumed by fever and pain. The maid was able to waken her sufficiently for her medication without rousing the clearly fatigued Vicomte. Noiselessly, Jeanne slipped out of the room, determined to leave the young master undisturbed.

The click of the door latch jolted Raoul from his uneasy sleep. Looking at Christine, he cursed himself for falling asleep, particularly as she was still enmeshed in the throes of fever. _Damn Jeanne, she has not given Christine her morning dose._ Raoul snatched the bottle and measured out the proper amount as he had seen the maids do so many times before. Placing his arm behind her shoulder, he lifted her up and guided the potion to her lips. Christine did not resist at all; in fact she sighed gently when laid tenderly back on her pillow. He gave silent thanks for the immediate easing of her symptoms and placed his head by her shoulder, immediately dropping off into an exhaustion that was oblivious to Christine's increasingly shallow breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Path into Darkness **

For too long she had endured the fever, the coughing, the viselike grip on her lungs. How could that much suffering have departed so abruptly, leaving her feeling so utterly _euphoric_? Christine braced for the gritty struggle to open her eyes, only to be puzzled by the effortlessness of the actual reality. Her focus sharpened on Raoul's head and torso, draped over the edge of her bed. Oh, what sly amusement she would enjoy in teasing the habitually fastidious Raoul for his tangled hair and unshaven cheeks. Yet, there was something more in his face, a twisted grief that the oblivion of sleep had not erased. This time the struggle was in earnest with her lips to form the words to waken him, to reassure him; but they died at the sight of his right arm draped over a still body.

Her body.

_Floating, falling… So this is death._

Christine's spirit hovered over the bedroom, disconnected from the setting below her. She allowed herself a moment of heartache for what would become Raoul's suffering before slowly being drawn away. As she drifted, scenes of her happy childhood with Father raced before her eyes at blinding speed only to gradually halt at the one memory that she did not wish to relive. This time she was not observing a nine-year-old Christine at her Father's deathbed. She literally felt her eighteen-year-old knees on the cold floor, as she prayed for his life to be spared. Christine tasted the salt of her tears as they coursed down her face. What kind of merciful God was forcing her relive this moment at which her life unraveled? Then her father spoke again; she strained to hear the words that were in part at war with her childish memories of that dreadful time.

_Child, when I am dead I will send you an Angel of Music to protect you._

_Christine, you will be an Angel of Music._

Mary, Mother of God, how could she have forgotten the Angel of Music? In an instant, she felt her spirit flung to the rooftop of the Opera Populaire. _Why was she here?_ The turning of the doorknob caught her attention. Out raced a perplexed Raoul and her distraught self. _The night she pledged herself to Raoul? Why?_ In life, she had treasured this memory of feeling safe and loved. Was there something more? She felt herself being gently pulled back to a vantage where she could see the entire rooftop. Something was different.

_Who was that shape in the shadows?_

He was concealed behind the far right statue of Pegasus, occasionally venturing out enough to view the unfolding events below. Christine focused all of her being on her Angel's face. Its mixture of dawning realization and pain of revelation slashed her to her core.

_He had been there all the time. He had heard her panic-stricken description of his face-"-so distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face". Had the murder of Joseph Buquet so overwhelmed her innate compassion that fear was allowed to rule in its stead? Was this the same fear that drove her into Raoul's embraces, to give him her first kiss? A kiss that once was intended for her Angel that first night in the lair._

_Order your fine horses._

Christine recoiled at the light-hearted callousness of her remark. All the while, she had been basking in her newfound security, her Angel was suffering the tortures of rejection and humiliation. She watched as he picked up the rose she had carelessly dropped in the dusting of snow. God, did their relationship always resonate with her acts of childish thoughtlessness? He held the rose to his cheek, whispering through his tears of his gift of Music to her and her betrayal in turn. She drew closer, longing to comfort him, to dry his tears with her kisses, but recoiled as his face twisted into rage, as he crushed the rose petals and dropped them on the snow.

_Angel, forgive me, did my cruelty make your heart bleed?_

His answer was to curse her to the night skies from atop the _Victoire Alles_.

"Christine, Christine!" Raoul's frantic pleas sounded so very far away. Why was he shaking her? She did not wish to return; that final night in the lair was waiting for her. She needed to remember. Why was she unable to grasp it?

_Christine_

She felt her spirit plunge back into her body with thunderous gasp of breath. The coldness was unbearable.

She opened her eyes to Raoul sobs of agony as he embraced her. It took every ounce of strength for her lift her hand to smooth his hair by way of reassurance. He lifted his head, his face glowing with love and relief.

"Christine, you did not leave me."

§

Christine spent the next few days in fitful sleep and irritated consciousness. She found herself increasing annoyed by the Dr. Baumgartner's visits, preferring the ministrations of the no-nonsense Mme. Terreux and Jeanne. Moreover, he ordered that visitations from the de Chagnys be limited in order to assure her full recovery. Raoul vehement protests at such a restriction were overruled by a combination of bartering and threats from his mother and the doctor. He would be allowed to share meals with Christine. His mother was satisfied a brief daily visit.

Raoul was all care and solicitude during his visits. After tempting her to eat as much as possible, he read poetry and sang to her to raise her spirits. It took much coaxing on Christine's part to persuade him to relate the events of her night of death. He had wakened to discover her not breathing and had shaken her in an attempt to revive her. She held him tightly as he shed tears of pain and relief into her curls; her heart was in turmoil but silent.

For the time, the infrequent visits suited Christine. She desired solitude to examine her flirtation with the afterlife. Her initial inclination was to dismiss the encounter as a misleading dream sent to torture her. That was upturned by Raoul's admission. Had she truly died? _What had Father meant about her being an Angel of Music? Had her Angel been on that rooftop with them?_ It would explain the madness that followed.

Why was she having so much difficulty remembering that final night in the lair? It was as if a dark shroud covered the experience, shifting occasionally to allow her fragmented glimpses.

Her progress, much to the astonishment of Dr. Baumgartner, continued to the point that she was fully recovered within two months of fleeing the opera house. During meals, Raoul was overflowing with wedding talk, not noticing his mother and fiancée's restraint on the subject. Christine attempted to enter the gaiety of plans for her future life but felt a cold aloofness clutching her heart. She found herself a frequent visitor to the family chapel thereby winning some small favor with Madame, as she, herself, was rigorous in her religious observances. Raoul was content in allowing time for her spiritual healing; the girl had been through hell with the Devil himself. If devotions cleansed that pollution from her soul then he would give prayers of thanks himself to God for His Mercy on her.

§

How many times had she knelt in this Holy Quietness begging for direction? A wonderful future lay before her yet she felt like a stranger in a strange land. Was there a purpose to her miraculous rebirth and why could she not grasp it? Had her life so degenerated into a horror of betrayal and pain that she found herself incapable of unreservedly embracing her promise of a loving and peaceful future? Was her uncertainty her punishment for her association with a murderer? _No, he killed but he was not a murderer._

Christine jerked up from her _prie dieu_ and strode toward the altar. She bowed her genuflection and sank to the cold marble floor in a prone position of supplication, her arms outstretched at her side.

_It ends now. Tell me or take me._

_I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music._

Christine rose, fighting down the hysteria that was rising from her quaking midsection. _Go to Him? Mother of God, no! _It was inconceivable. Had she slipped into insanity even to consider such an action? Was God punishing her for her arrogant demand by taking her mind instead of her body? She would escape this House of Madness dressed in the false trappings of Worship. She had run from the Devil once; she would run from God now. No one would find her.

The fragrant blast nearly knocked her back into the altar. She resisted at first but found the overwhelming aroma seeping into her pores, into her mind, into her soul, providing welcome balm. The scent of _roses_. She sank to the floor in an ocean of tears.

How long had she lain there, was it hours or mere minutes? It did not matter. Her spirit overflowed with the suppressed memories of that night, of the fear and rage, but more so of the wordless promises made that had yet to be kept. Quietly closing the chapel door, she fled to her room to wash her face and re-pin her hair. Raoul must not see her tears. It would not do to raise questions that must not be answered. But, perhaps Raoul could lead her to the answer of the only question that now mattered in her existence. _Where is He?_

**Author's Notes**: To avoid disturbing the continuity of the story, I will post explanations/responses in the review section.


	5. Chapter 5

**Dungeon of My Black Despair **

Christine softly knocked on the library door after being informed of Raoul's location by one of the downstairs maids. If only there was another way but she could think of none. Any misstep, any inappropriate emotion on her part would undo everything. She was a singer and dancer but now she would test her skill as an actress. Raoul bade her enter. Seeing his visitor was Christine, he bounded over to her and gave her a hearty kiss, delighted at so pleasant an interruption to his examination of the estate accounts.

She took an ever so slight breath.

"Raoul, I have come to apologize and make confession to you. I have been distant, for which I apologize. And I wish to make confession to you as why."

Raoul raised his eyebrows. Of course, he realized the events in Paris must still weigh heavy on her soul. _But confession?_

"Raoul, I still live in fear of the Phantom." How she hated calling her Angel that name but she needed Raoul not to think of him as her Angel of Music. Best to let him continue to think of Angel as a monster, a thing. It fit her purpose. "He could still destroy our future happiness. I must know what happened to him. Is he dead, did he escape, is he near us even as we speak? Raoul, you have resources, contacts. Use them to settle this matter so that we might live in peace." As Christine rushed these words out of her lips, she gave her first thought to the real possibility of finding her Angel. What would she do then? Nothing. Everything.

Raoul stepped back, stunned by her request. Would this _thing_ never stop haunting them? The bile rose in his throat as he remembered Christine's passionate kisses on that monster's lips while he was helplessly bound by that devil's lasso. _He would kill the Phantom now and beg God's mercy later._

"Christine, I prayed that I would never have need to disclose this information. He may have been a murderer but I know he was in part responsible for training your angelic voice. Forgive me, my love. I received an official report from the authorities that they later found his body in the lair, dead by his own hand." It pleased him to assign that _thing_ a coward's death.

Raoul steeled himself for Christine's outburst. But when it was not forthcoming he felt a shiver of anxiety crawl down his spine. She was _too_ still. Her next question was entirely unexpected.

"How?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Christine, I will not pain you with the details," he remonstrated.

"HOW?" Her Voice was terrible and beautiful in its rage and he felt supernaturally compelled to obey despite his misgivings.

"By pistol shot."

"WHERE"

"Christine, I have already stated they found his body…"

"WHERE?"

Realization dawned upon him as to what she was asking. It was too horrible to contemplate.

"No, Christine, I will not…"

"WHERE?" That Voice would not be denied.

"A wound to the head according to the report."

"WHAT SIDE?"

Raoul's eyes narrowed in confusion. Why would she ask for such an odd piece of information? He would tell her and end this ghastly discussion at once.

"The report mentioned it was the left side."

_The Devil's victory was complete. It had extracted its vengeance upon her Angel so that both sides might be joined for eternity._

To Raoul, it was as if his lovely Christine had simply vanished in one of the Phantom's magical puffs of smoke, leaving something icy and hard as granite in her stead. A faint memory drifted around the periphery of his mind, a memory of cold, marble angels at the Paris cemetery of her father's burial. She had willingly joined their ranks.

He had lied too well.

Christine's eyes never left Raoul's face as he spoke to her. She had commanded her body to be still but her Voice was lost to her control. As he intoned those last obscene words, she closed her eyes momentarily as if responding to some demonic benediction. Then without a word, she turned on her heel and slowly exited the library, leaving behind a dazed and speechless Raoul. Moving toward the stairs to her bedroom, she became haunted by the music in her mind:

_Falling, floating, sweet…_

_No! THIS is death and I have joined my Angel in Hell._

Soundlessly, she entered her bedroom and turned the key in the door lock.


	6. Chapter 6

**Deep as Hell**

It had not been enough.

While standing in the boat leaning on Raoul, she had sent endless petitions to Heaven that her kisses, her ring would give him the will to walk out of the Darkness. When he came out of the bedroom to glance longingly at her with that horribly beautiful face, she wondered if he was able to see the desperate pleading in her eyes for him to LIVE. Then he walked away and her ears were assaulted with the sound of breaking glass. _Was he shattering the windows of Hell in order to gain entrance to Heaven?_

_Why had she not stayed beside him through his obligatory sojourn in Purgatory for his sins?_

_Because he sent her away._

_No! Because she could not walk in his darkness._

And she had prayed that a Merciful God would accomplish what she, in her faith had started.

Time lost all meaning in this Kingdom where darkness would eternally rule, its armies ever posed to destroy faith. As if in a dream, she heard beating on her door. Raoul was screaming and crying her name but she would not let him enter _her_ nightmarish domain. A gentle voice spoke soothingly to him and the noise vanished into blessed nothingness. They had left her alone to be with her Angel in Hell.

The Devil had not finished with her. It invited her into its beautiful lair of eternal night only to offer her the misery of watching her Angel suffer the torments of the damned. She would not be allowed to comfort him and guide him out of the depths. How could she when he did not even know her? Were the damned always oblivious to the living? Had the Almighty not entirely loosened His grip on Satan's rule to the point that He extracted from His Fallen Angel this small measure on mercy on these condemned souls, that they would never know the additional grief of remembering the living?

On the third day, she dared risk the wrath of Heaven and Hell.

She would no longer bear her Angel's eternal damnation. The first time she had been denied her opportunity bring him into the Light. She would not prove so unworthy an opponent again. If the Devil wanted a soul, it would have hers. She would spend the rest of her earthly existence in piety and repentance, being a virtuous wife to Raoul and loving mother to their children. What a tempting prize she would make for Hell! And at her last breath she would enter its Dark Kingdom to ransom her beloved to his rightful place in Heaven and serve in his stead.

_Though she would never hear him, perhaps he would sing beautiful prayers for her soul that would make the Angels weep._

_The Devil laughed at her. I will have you both regardless. Your arrogance alone will guarantee your passage. Shall I give your Angel in Hell the gift of awareness that he might observe your endless torment?_

"Heavenly Father, forgive me!" Christine sank to her knees in obeisance. The Darkness had seized her and was trying to break her. She felt the point of its sword touch her heart and draw back as quickly, not able to go further. As she bent down and laid her cheek on the hard floor, she gave thanks for her deliverance from the evil that would destroy her. She sensed heavenly angels enfolding their wings around her person, their radiant light chasing away the shadows. The balance of power in the universe had shifted slightly.

She knew what must be done. She walked over to the washstand and poured water from the brimming pitcher into the basin. The water was not warm but that was inconsequential; she dared not ring for Jeanne at this early hour and chance rousing Raoul or Madame. Layer by layer she removed her wrinkled clothing until she was stripped bare. The cool softness of the wet bathing cloth brought a needed degree of relief to her ravaged body. She meticulously wiped every inch of skin and repeating the ritual a second and third time. After donning a fresh chemise and stockings, she searched through her armoire for the appropriate items of attire. The simple white tea dress would do; it would not require her to don a corset. But where was the black hooded cloak? Madame had been generous in providing a suitable wardrobe for her son's fiancée. De Chagny pride would never countenance the more artistic and less affluent attire of an opera singer. _There it is. Good_. Quickly her mane of tangled curls was brushed into a semblance of order and tied with a simple black ribbon, her sole adornment. Glancing at the cheval glass, she adjusted the hood over her head and drew the cloak over the whiteness of her gown. The memory of another black draped figure in a reflection mocked her and spurred her to action.

Her hand trembled as she turned the door key. Whether it was hunger or from realization of the enormity of her task, she did not know; she was beyond caring about her physical needs. Tentatively she pushed open the door to find Raoul sprawled uncomfortably in a chair, obviously in a troubled sleep. _Of course, he was there, her brave knight._ He had slept outside her dormitory room after the masquerade. He would always protect her at the risk of his own life. She silently closed the bedroom door so there would be no evidence of her departure. _No, Raoul, you will not follow on your fine horse this time. _

The crunching of gravel under her feet was the only sound that dared betray her presence. Christine glanced at the sky, thankful that impeding dawn had lightened it enough for her to navigate her path with some ease, but still dark enough that the servants would not have roused for that day's work. A glorious burst of fragrance signaled her arrival at her objective. Madame esteemed the virtue of Christian humility but she did allowed herself a bubble of uncharacteristic pride at her magnificent rose garden. At this time of year, they were a riot of color and sensual aroma. Christine breathed in, filling her lungs with its familiar memories. _It would be so easy to stay here and lose myself forever. No, this must be done but where to start? _ Madame's flair for the idiosyncratic prompted her to segregate the red rose bushes from the others. Christine smiled, imagining that it perhaps was fitting that this, of all colors, should remain with its own kind. She lightly brushed the buds with her fingertips, and then with a start, cursed her forgetfulness. She had no tools with which to clip the stems. There was no other recourse; she would have to break them with her bare hands. The thorns cruelly ripped into her palms but she was undeterred by the pain. Gathering her bloody harvest in her arms, she wound her way back to the chateau by a different path, a path that led her closer to the chapel entrance.

Christine lit a candle placed by the door and entered the solemn darkness. What she proposed was blasphemous and she would surely be denied the comforting rites of the Church if the world knew of her actions. In her soul, God had already forgiven her for what she was to do. Padding softly to the altar Christine gently placed the roses on the altar cloth and proceeded to light all of the tapers in the chapel. Retrieving a missal from a _prie dieu_, she leafed through the pages until she found the suitable passage. Facing the altar, singing barely above a whisper, she intoned the _De Profundus_ from the Requiem Mass:

_De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: Domine, exaudi vocem meam. _

_Fiant aures tuae intendentes: in vocem deprecationes meae. _

_Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: Domine, quis sustinebit. _

_Quia apud te propitiatio est: et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine. _

_Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus: speravit anima mea in Domino..._

Her Angel had taken his life. There would be no bells to call the faithful to pray for him, no holy water and incense to cleanse him. He had died unshriven. Christine Daaé, a woman who loved him with all her soul, would act as his priest.

_In paradisum deducant te angeli:_

_In tuo adventu suscipiant martyres,_

_Et perducant te in civiatatem sanctum Ierusalem._

_Horus angelorum te suscipiant, et cum_

_Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeus requiem._

The last words of the _In Paradisum _floated to the ceiling of the chapel and beyond. It was finished. She closed the missal and placed it back in the _prie dieu_. Gently she snuffed each candle and exited the chapel. The tears streaming down her face threatened to drown her but would not make her weep.

§

Slipping past Raoul to enter her room had been easy enough. _Was it possible she, too, was turning into a ghost?_ A glance in the cheval glass certainly gave evidence; she was as white as parchment. The bathing cloth would find additional use on her streaked face and bloody hands. While putting the cloak away, her ears detected the first rustling of domestic activity in the de Chagny household. _It was time._ Opening the door, she stepped across to Raoul and placed her hand on his stubbly cheek. He awoke with a start, his mind disoriented from lack of sleep.

_Why is an angel before me?_

No, it could not be, but it was Christine clad in a soft white dress with a faint, sweet smile upon her lips. He shook his head to clear the drowsiness. He must tell her…

"Christine, what I told you about the Phantom…"

She placed her fingertips over his lips.

"No, my dearest, we shall speak of him no more; he is dead."

Raoul inwardly sighed with relief. The thought of revealing his duplicity in this matter pained him deeply. Christine had always trusted him and he greatly esteemed her high opinion of him. _Let this die, along with that monster._

It would be months later before Raoul would recall this precise moment as the instant Christine erected an impenetrable wall behind those luminous dark eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hide Your Face So the World Will Never Find You**

Being a ghost was not without its advantages. It allowed one the freedom to interact with the living without being touched by them. And Christine desperately needed that freedom to fit the pieces of the puzzle that would be her future existence. Occasionally, Raoul and Madame would glance at her sharply as if they had brushed against an aliennessin her spirit, but she was quick to allay their suspicions with a well-placed smile or charming remark.

Her relationship with Raoul became a dagger in her heart. In spite of her all too obvious mourning for Angel, he steadfastly refused to acknowledge any reason to terminate their engagement. Christine inwardly cringed at her own lack of courage in making the break. What other options did she have available? She was a scandal-ridden former diva with no prospects. This lovely gossamer cage at least offered her protection and peace. True, Raoul was in love her and while she loved him, she knew in the deepest places in her heart that she was not in love with him. The death of her beloved was still too raw. Surely, a merciful God would grant her this one favor, the ability to fall in love with her future husband. The realization that she might be forced to live out the rest of her life in some dreadful Faustian bargain was too awful to contemplate.

And while her self-imposed loneliness gave her respite from emotional demands, her physical being longed for distraction, any distraction, to counterbalance her introspection. Used to a regimen of rehearsal and performance at the Opera left her ill prepared for the unstructured life of the aristocracy; she needed purpose and accomplishment. Speaking to Raoul on the subject proved fruitless; he wished her only to enjoy her indolence after years of the restrictive existence of a ballet brat. It pleased him that his rank and position could grant her such luxury. Christine could not agree but refused to argue the issue. Raoul had been kindness itself. She would find another way. _Perhaps Madame? _

Madame was a creature of habit. Her days started with prayers in the chapel followed by a simple breakfast. She would then retire to the morning room to pour over the household accounts, confer with Mme. Terreux, and perform any other duties that were the responsibility of the lady of the estate. Christine waited outside the entrance, waiting for the departure of the housekeeper to give her opportunity for a private conversation. Noting Mme. Terreux's dismissal, she firmly rapped on the entry and was granted entrance. Madame was surprised; she could not recall having a conversation with this girl that had not been initiated by her own efforts. Christine seemed more comfortable talking to her in Raoul's presence. What had prompted her mountain to come to Mohammed? After a few moments of exchanged pleasantries, the mountain came to the point.

"Madame, I come to ask a favor." Christine spoke with a slight wariness. What would Madame think of her proposal? "I feel burdened by excessive time on my hands. Is there anything I can do that would assist you? I realize I am ignorant of the dealings of a great house but I am willing to learn."

Madame held up her hand and Christine relapsed into silence. Ever since Raoul had brought this pitiful creature into their lives, she had been torn between her desire to show Christian charity to this girl and her realization of the unsuitability of the match. Merciful God, they had arrived without warning at the chateau and Christine was in a wedding dress no less. She inwardly shuddered. The dignity of the respectable de Chagny name was about to be undone by a mere slip of a girl.

The germ of an idea was forming in her head. Perhaps a solution existed that might address both concerns.

"Christine, I realize that you are unschooled in the responsibilities of running a household, particularly that of a large estate. There is much to be learned. I had the advantage of tutelage from my own mother as I entered my teens. I would make a counterproposal to you. Postpone your marriage for six months. Give yourself over to me fully during that period that I might teach you not only the management of the household but make available any other educational opportunities that are necessary for a lady of your future rank."

Christine first thought was that Raoul would never agree and that Madame's plan was entirely sensible. It was true: she was ignorant and unsure of this new life. Madame's proposal would not only give her mind and body the preoccupation it craved; it would ease her journey into her future, the world of the nobility and its autocratic rules of behavior.

"Madame, I will accept your proposal upon the condition that I am able to convince Raoul." Madame threw her a doubtful glance but Christine adopted an air of confidence. "I believe I will be successful."

Madame nodded her assent. Six months was sufficient time for the girl's feelings to change about this marriage. She obviously had no idea of the rigorous training necessary for a noble lady. Well, Christine would either learn under her exacting standards or scurry back to her former life. If Madame had not considerer gambling a sin, she would have wagered on the latter.

Raoul's emphatic "No." was hardly surprising. He was already chafing under the delays that her illness had caused. If it had been his choice, they would have married soon after arriving at the chateau. Christine used her most soothing voice to placate him. She explained her uncertainty of her position and her desire to adapt to her new surroundings but Raoul would have none of it. She could learn all she needed after they were married. Christine signed when she realized she would need to steer this conversation to a topic that was uncomfortable to her but might serve her purposes.

"Raoul, if it is God's will, I may be with child very soon after our wedding night." Christine blushed to speak of such a delicate subject but there was no other choice. "I would not burden such a joyous time with the additional strain of learning the responsibilities of a vicomtesse, especially if the matter could be resolved beforehand."

Raoul's eyes widened at her talk of children. While she had been affectionate to him since her illness, she had shown no true passion. This was the first indication that she thought of him in those terms, as her lover, as the father of her children. He swept her into his arms in a passionate kiss. She responded with a prayer asking forgiveness and what she hoped would appear to be a response of equal fervor.

"Yes, Christine, we will wait."

Madame was as good as her word. Christine was entirely at her disposal, making for less frequent contact with Raoul. Because her life was so busy, she encouraged Raoul to make frequent journeys to Paris to repair neglected family business affairs. At first, the excursions were rare overnight train trips but their frequency and duration increased over time. She did not mind but was very careful to greet him enthusiastically upon his return.

Weeks passed as Madame instructed Christine in such matters as account ledgers, inventories, and the proper handling of servants. She learned to arrange flowers and evaluate plans submitted by the gardener as well as observe and occasionally assist the cook in all types of food preparation, though Madame did not think the latter quite necessary. At a glance, she could tell if a table was properly set for particular meal and what wines were to be served with each course. Mme. Terreux was an enthusiastic teacher to the petite mademoiselle's grateful student; Christine firmly believed that the good housekeeper was largely responsible for her total recovery from her potentially deadly illness. She treasured Mme. Terreux's knowledge of household affairs and well as the gift of a receipt book of her medicinal remedies.

Additionally, Christine was tutored in those accomplishments expected of a young lady. Fortunately, her years of ballet training have made her the most graceful of dancers so she had no need for additional training. Her piano tutor was delighted to be instructing the daughter of Gustave Daaé. Granted she was terribly out of practice but her father had placed her at a piano seat when she was three years old and had her play until his death. Opportunities to practice were rare at the Opera but she had remembered much and had inherited her father's instrumental sensibilities. The tutor was disappointed he had not had the opportunity to instruct her from childhood or recommend her to a great conservatory. With proper training, she might have rivaled the great Clara Schumann. As it were, with practice, she still had to ability to become the most accomplished female pianist amongst the aristocracy. In his private opinion, the aristocracy would be too tin-eared to recognize her abilities.

Christine treasured the afternoons spent in the music room at the finely crafted piano. She felt her father's spirit flowing through her increasingly responsive fingertips. It was so good to think of Father with joy instead of sorrow. Nevertheless, it pained her that her father's dream of her becoming a great singer had died in the fire at the Populaire. She could no long bear the thought of singing even the simplest childhood lullaby. Angel had been as much her Muse as she was his,

Of equal if not more delight were her riding lessons. Of course, like every small child she had been allowed to sit on a pony but she had not had the opportunity to master the intricacies of the sidesaddle, much less the canter and gallop. Her riding master had expected little from this slender, delicate mademoiselle but she surprised him with her unexpected wiriness and endurance. Years of strenuous ballet training has given her the erect posture and strong limbs needed to master horsemanship. Unfortunately, Christine exhibited almost a fearlessness in the saddle for which he cautioned her. The riding master did not wish to answer to Madame and the Vicomte for any accidents resulting from her rashness. Still, he marveled that she was learning to ride as if she were born in the saddle. For Christine if was if she could not learn fast enough. She mastered the cavaletti in short order and cajoled the riding master into allowing her to attempt the lower hedges. Naturally, she suffered some falls in her haste but she instantly would jump up and allow the riding master to hoist her back into the saddle. A warm bath in the evening would soothe any aching bruises.

Soon she was taking early morning rides to the grumbling dismay of her sleepy groomsman. Her horse, a gift from Madame from the adjoining de Chagny stud farm, was a lovely bay mare that she named Allegra. Raoul, when in residence, did not enjoy such early hours and was content to ride with her in the later afternoon after her lessons. After two mornings, she dismissed her groomsman and rode alone. Madame would be distressed but she did not care. On her horse, she was _free_ of it all.

Those long rides along the perimeter of the estate, galloping with the wind whipping her face, healed her as nothing else because she felt _him_ there with her. At first, Christine resisted the idea of remembering him but her mind would wander back to him, bringing with it a calmness that washed her soul. So little was peaceful in her soul that she was willing to snatch any crumbs offered her.

What had he said? That she would learn to find the man behind the monster. Her cheeks burned with shame that her actions had provoked his diatribe of bitter rage and self-loathing grief. How could she have been so stupidly careless with him? She would grow to understand that with her, it was never about his face but he could never have accepted that. It had been his night to show her all the beauty of his world and, perhaps, himself, but her rash actions had destroyed his carefully constructed façade and had wounded him deeply. She had the opportunity to comfort him, to assure him that he was still her Angel, but the best she could offer him was his mask.

_My God, did he think I handed him back the mask because I could not bear his face?_

It was so obvious now, the tone in his voice, the frozen expression on his face when he said they must return. She had humiliated him and he had been trying to gather any shreds of dignity he could find.

Christine leaned her face against Allegra's mane for comfort.

It was not often that Madeleine de Chagney was at a loss. Three months into the agreement, Christine was confounding her expectations. In her role as instructress, she had hurled every scrap of domestic information at her disposal and the girl had absorbed it as a sea sponge absorbs ocean water. Her music teacher and riding master were enthusiastic in their praise of her natural talent and quick wits. It was obvious the girl had not had the advantages of rigorous convent training but she was peculiarly well read. Madame took note of the books she removed from the library shelf and an odd collection they were indeed: works by Hugo, Voltaire, Dante, Shakespeare, the English poets Robert Browning and Lord Byron, even the Aeneid in its original Latin. She seemed to have a respectable knowledge of Italian and English, coupled with a halting Swedish spoken with a charming French accent.

Madame sighed. She regretted the girl's checkered past but she was a pragmatist at heart. Perhaps it was God's will that this exceptional girl in all but birth and circumstance would bring new vigor to the de Chagny line. In any case, she feared Raoul would have to look to himself because this child's intelligence had the potential to test his authority in their marriage.

Christine was still mulling over the previous day's conversation with Madame as she slowed Allegra to a walk. Madame was not a woman given to superfluous conversation but she had been almost effusive in her praise of Christine's progress to date. Christine hoped that she shifted her dumbfounded look of incredulity to one of modest humility quickly enough to avoid Madame's detection. Why was she going on about her learning her responsibilities so quickly? Angel had been a much more exacting taskmaster. He left books in the chapel for her that she dared not read lest he ask questions about them, which he did. He became even more demanding in her vocal training, as if he had some race against time to instill all of his musical knowledge in her. She had always doubted her abilities but in comparison to whom? In retrospect she realized she had compared herself to her Angel, never taking into account his own towering intellect vastly overshadowed any man she had ever known, much less a shy little ballet brat.

Christine laughed aloud at her own foolishness. _Am I at risk of becoming as proud as he?_ She sobered at that thought. Yes, he was proud, arrogant, controlling, and possessed a murderous temper. Yet for years, he had treated a sad little orphan with exquisite kindness, singing to her, talking to her, teaching her. Somehow, that chain had begun to unravel at their initial face-to-face meeting when they both were confronted with the fact that they were no longer just the Angel of Music and his student but a man and a woman.

The next day after breakfast Madame called both Christine and Raoul into the morning room. As they were rapidly approaching the four-month mark, she deemed it necessary to take Christine to Paris for her trousseau fittings. Two weeks would be sufficient to accomplish these tasks. Raoul would not accompany them but would join them the later part of the fortnight. Madame felt that men were liable to become nuances when it came to matters of weddings and dress fittings; Raoul would be better occupied at the chateau.

Christine raised her voice in protest, "Madame, surely my wardrobe is sufficient. The purchases made in Rouen are appropriate and adequate." The Comtesse gave her a withering look, "Dear girl, my modiste in Rouen is fine and well for country living but we are speaking of your trousseau!" Christine, knowing that Madame would not be forestalled, threw up her hands in defeat. She did not wish to return to Paris, preferring the smaller, yet considerably more intriguing Rouen.

The twenty-five kilometer trip to Rouen had been a blessed respite from the monotony of her sickbed. Raoul had fretted that she might up the journey but his mother, sensing the girl's agitation, overruled his judgment much to Christine's relief. Her nighttime flight from Paris had left her unprepared for the rustic beauty of the Normandy countryside with its rolling hills of lush grazing land and blossoming apple orchards. For a _jeune fille_ who had lived much of her life in the captive existence of a large city, the change was spiritually liberating. Driving through the streets of Rouen put her in mind that Little Lotte's influence would never totally leave her, so delighted was she at the medieval construct of the town. The half-timbered structures spoke of a time five-hundred years earlier. _It spoke of his time._ Christine shivered at the realization. There was little of the nineteenth century in her Angel. _He belonged to another time, a time when men lived boldly, died violently, and answered more to the moment than to their Maker._

A flurry of packing occupied Christine's energies for the next two days. She was torn about packing her riding habit. Of course, the de Chagny's townhouse stable had suitable mounts for ladies so with a twinge of disloyalty to Allegra she added the habit to the growing mound to be packed. Then there was the nagging matter of the wedding dress under her bed. Why did she not burn it? _Because it was the only evidence remaining that he had ever existed._

Looking around her room she realized this would be the first time she would not be sleeping in it since that night Raoul and she fled Paris. And to Paris she was returning.

They arrived by train in Paris on a warm, sunny autumn morning. The de Chagny coachman was already at the station waiting for them, gathering their trunks in quick order. Upon entering the townhouse, Madame inspected the rooms and had Christine order lunch from the chef. They were to rest the remainder of the day and begin their shopping in the morning. Madame had the foresight to send a telegram to Worth and Bobergh regarding the ladies impending descent upon their establishment the following day.

Never had Christine known that such a fairytale place could exist. Worth was world-renown for his couturier but nothing prepared her for the dizzying exhibit of dress styles paraded before her. The deceptive simplicity of his designs suited her taste perfectly. She even practiced her rusty native tongue on M Worth's Swedish partner M. Bobergh who was delighted that Gustave Daae's daughter had graced their establishment. The next few days were a whirl of dress fittings and purchases of shoes, hats, gloves, parasols, undergarments, all of the finest quality for a de Chagny bride. Against Madame's judgment, she chose a severe but elegant wedding gown and veil. She needed a dress that would blot out memory of another wedding dress, one designed with exquisite beauty and love.

Christine also found herself hungry for news of Paris. She had not inquired about the Opera Populaire while at the chateau and had been so remiss as to not let the Giry's know of her condition. At this point, she was so lonesome for all of them that she would have kissed even Carlotta. Casual references to the maids brought out a wealth of information. Did mademoiselle know nothing of the grand happenings regarding the burnt Opera? It was in all of the newspapers. It would seem that the fire miraculously died out before causing major damage. And there had been no loss of life due to the fire and crashing chandelier. The perpetually nervous Maestro Reyer had managed to evacuate the musicians before the chandelier crashed into the orchestra pit. As a result he had become quite the hero among the all the musicians in Paris. It was sad about Signore Piangi but also quite mysterious. La Carlotta found his body and assumed the Phantom has strangled him with his lasso but stagehands had reported to the police that they had seen Piangi staggering around backstage with a noose around his neck during the duet between Don Juan and Aminta. Carlotta demanded a _post mortem_, which revealed that the ligature marks on his neck were insufficient to cause strangulation only unconsciousness and that he had likely died of a heart attack exacerbated by fear, his age, and his overweight condition.

To add to the drama the Emperor himself sent a message to Messieurs Andre and Firman offering what aid the Ministry of Education and Fine Arts could provide to assist the world-renown Opera Populaire. The story of the young diva being rescued by the dashing nobleman had touched the Emperor's heart as he himself had married a beautiful woman of lower rank for love against the advice of his Council of Ministers. His example spurred others in the nobility and the wealthy merchant class to invest in the repairs of the opera house and cover salaries. It turned out that the government's financial assistance was not needed. It became fashionable to have one's name listed in the newspapers as a donor. Some chose to remain anonymous and were listed as such, including one exceptionally generous dodnor. Repairs were being performed even by gaslight; it was estimated that they would be completed in December. Smaller venues were donating space for rehearsals, hoping to profit from the frenzied publicity surrounding the fire. La Carlotta had vowed to retire from performing and return to Italy over the loss of her Piangi but the managers persuaded her to remain when they introduced her to Piangi's replacement: a younger, taller, and slimmer tenor who would later exhibit a marked preference for the ballet boys.

Christine's first inclination upon hearing this fantastic tale was to burst out in hysterical laughter. How something so tragic in her own life could have degenerated into a typical Parisian farce was beyond her understanding. Instead, she kindly thanked the maids for the information. On Sunday, Madame would be visiting old friends. She would excuse herself with a headache and take a cab to see the Giry's. The de Chagny coachman had discreetly made inquiries for her at the Opera House as to their present address, a small rented house. She needed answers but to what questions?

It was rare to see the normally implacable Madame Giry register any emotions beyond a bemused irony but the arrival of Christine Daae at the door caught her off her guard. She quickly allowed her look of shock and _worry_ dissolve into one of warm invitation.

"My dear, how are you. I expect you are here to consult me about your marriage to the Vicomte." As she invited her to sit in the small parlor, Madame's eyes never left Christine's face. _What had happened to this girl?_ She was dressed fashionably in a toilette of dark cream but her countenance had changed. She seemed much older than her years and her eyes… Madame had known those eyes since the girl's father died. Their brown depths had ever reflected her shifting emotions but now they seemed so _closed_ _off_? Perhaps it was to be expected.

Christine flushed red at Madame's implied reproof. She really should have contacted the Giry's earlier. "Madame, I extend my sincerest apologies for not writing you. At the time I thought time would aid me in putting my past behind me but that may be far easier said than done."

Madame Giry cast a sharp glance at the girl. _If this girl was to have any kind of rational life, the past had better stay behind her._

Further conjecture was postponed by the sound of Meg's squeal at the top of the stairs. She knew she had heard her best friend's voice and raced down the stairs in a very unlady-like manner to snatch Christine and whirl her around the room. Madame was encouraged to see a small glimmer appear in Christine's eyes. The two girls chatted and laughed as if the past year had not occurred, sitting beside each other with their hands clasped tightly together. Madame smiled and busied herself with the preparation of the tea tray.

After apprising the Giry's of her wedding plans, news of the Opera House dominated the conversation. Some of the employees quit permanently out of fear and trauma; others drifted away only to come back with the promise of renewed employment. Madame was philosophical; she had lost some promising dancers but the fire had also relieved her of some of her more burdensome ones, particularly that little chattering magpie, Cecile Jammes. Rehearsals were just now settling down from the massive chaos at the beginning. The managers had determine that since no performances could be staged due to construction the chorus would rehearse as many of the season's projected operas as feasible. Jumping from one opera to another proved chaotic but not impossible.

Christine absorbed every scrap, every detail. This had been her life for years and she was still drawn to it even though she knew she would never return. As the conversation lagged, she knew she had to make an opening for her own inquiries. If only Meg were not in the room, but there was no way to hint her away without arousing unnecessary questions.

"Madame, Raoul told me the Opera Ghost's body was found in cellars, his life taken by his own hand. I…I." _Christine Daae, you fool. What more can you possibly say? This conversation can only end in misery._

"Christine, you must be dreaming! There was no bo--." Meg's outburst was momentarily hissed to silence by her mother but would not be contained. "Maman, why are you shushing me? It is no secret that the Phantom's body was never found. You, yourself confirmed this with the authorities. For all we know he could be haunting another opera house!"

Christine placed the shaking teacup in her hand on the tray, dimly noticing that she had split some of the liquid into the saucer. _How odd; I usually am not so clumsy…_ For the second instance in her life, she fainted into oblivion.

"Meg, fetch my reticule immediately." Madame barked to her daughter as if calling the dancers to their positions. Christine slid from the divan and was sprawled on the floor in an unconscious heap. She rapidly dug through the bag for her smelling salts and waved the vial under the girl's nose.

Christine sputtered into consciousness, slowly becoming aware of two faces above her. In a combined effort, Madame and Meg lifted her back to the divan. They offered to help her recline fully but she declined with a slight nod. She, did, however accept Madame Giry's offer of a glass of wine. Its ruby contents revived her and cleared some of the fog in her head.

_So Raoul had lied to her. Why was she not surprised? Hadn't he tried to kill her Angel at every conceivable opportunity, even going so far as to use her as the trap? Except this time, Raoul had thrust his sword through her to kill him._

Madame noticed lucidity returning to Christine's eyes and gasped. The stony look had been replaced by one that held all the sadness of the world. Christine dropped her head and wailed in agonizing sorrow. The Giry women held her tightly as they would a desperately ill child.

As Christine regained her composure, she related the story of Raoul's duplicity. Meg's face registered shock; she could not imagine the noble Raoul concocting such a dishonorable tale. Madame was quiet but uttered "damn fool" in her thoughts. This was just the sort of moral carelessness on Raoul's part that would bring out Christine's Scandinavian obstinacy and jeopardize her future.

_Christine's mind was already set. She would break with Raoul. He had been so good to her, her knight in shining armor, but this treachery was beyond healing. He had assigned her Angel to Hell before she could intervene on his behalf. She hoped that in time God would soften her heart that she might forgive Raoul but she would never forget. It would hang between them for eternity._

"Madame, I would ask a great favor of you."

Minette Giry was furious at Christine. The girl was throwing away a dazzling future of ease and privilege out of what—righteous anger? She wanted shake her.

"Christine, you cannot be serious about wishing to live with Meg and me. Go back to your fiancé."

"Madame would you have me betray my heart by marrying the one I did not love?"

_The one she did not love? Was there someone she did love?_ Madame felt dizzy. _Holy Virgin, she is speaking of Him! What happened between the three of them that night in the lair?_

The glowing resolve on Christine's face silenced Madame's objections. If she did not take her in, the girl would most likely disappear into the streets. Christine would not know those devils; it might be marginally safer to risk her with the devil she did know.

"Very well, Christine, you may stay." Madame glowered as Meg shrieked and danced around Christine at her decision. _God help them all._


	8. Chapter 8

**Let It Be War Upon You**

As she rode in the cab back to the townhouse, a desultory autumn breeze fanned her cheek. _Perhaps he felt the same gentle wind on his face. No, he still could be dead._ _NO! Raoul had killed him but her father would send her Angel back to her. Her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music. Her father promised her..._

That week Christine sank even further into her web of duplicity but it could not be helped. She would escape this gossamer cage but on her terms. Clothing was surreptitiously packed and sent by cab to Madame Giry's address. She did not require a great deal, a few gowns would do. The riding habit would stay—no; she would allow herself the small luxury of one remembrance of happiness at the chateau. _Poor Allegra, what would become of her?_

All was in readiness. Her personal effects were secure at Madame Giry's residence. She had prepared a letter for Madame la Comtesse. It pained her to admit her deceit to a woman she had grown to admire and she prayed Madame would understand in time. Raoul was scheduled to arrive that morning. She would not stay another night with him under the same roof.

_The bridge was crossed; she would stand and watch it burn._

§

Christine closed the parlor door behind her as she faced Raoul. The memory of another interview in the library at the chateau would give her the strength to accomplish her objective. Raoul would hate her before this was over.

Her opening volley was brutal in its directness. "I have spoken to Madame Giry. I know you lied to me about the Phantom's death."

Raoul sucked in his breath. God would not to be merciful this day.

"Christine, I did not think—I only wanted to destroy the source of your pain."

"Did it occur to you that by destroying what you perceived as the source of my pain you actually sacrificed me? You put his blood on my hands. At least when he killed, he did not cover my hands with blood. He took it all on himself."

"He was willing enough to cover your hands with my blood."

"But he did not. He set us free. He set _me_ free. You sought to enslave me using him as the chain."

"Christine, why are you defending this murdering _thing_?"

"Raoul, do you need ask? _You were there that night. You saw_."

Raoul closed his eyes. Excruciating memories of her succumbing to his embraces, of her passionately kissing that monstrous face flooded his soul.

He now accused her. "You wanted to stay with him. You stayed with me because he loved you too much to keep you."

"And I have walked through my personal hell for that decision." Christine's wry grin mocked him. "If I had stayed with him would you have had delicious nightmares of his and my body entwining? Or would you have willingly traded them for the nightmares I have endured since that night?"

Raoul staggered back at her brazenness.

"You would have willingly endured his hideousness before you every day of your life?"

"Who are you to judge as to what is too hideous to endure or what is too beautiful to endure?"

"My God, you are as mad as he."

"I know."

"Christine, I fought so hard to free you."

"I had already passed the point of no return."

A crimson fog of rage shrouded Raoul's mind as he envisioned her with _him_ on that bridge, allowing her body to be caressed by that monster. His hand rose involuntarily to strike her but dropped helplessly to his side as he strove to collect himself. He gave her a slight, condescending bow and slammed out of the room.

Christine walked out of the library into the foyer, surveying its wealth and privilege for a last time. Suddenly her mind's eye presented her a vision of the gossamer cage with its door open. She walked out the main entry into the daylight.

§

Madame Giry dismissed ballet rehearsal early, bribing Meg with enough francs to accompany the other brats for shopping and a late lunch. Both women realized that Christine would be arriving upon their doorstep sometime during the week but only Madame knew it would be today. She wanted to be there alone to greet the girl, to offer solace if necessary. Instead, she found Christine curled unladylike in the window seat of the parlor, staring out at the passing scene.

"I see that the key I gave you is in good working order." Madame felt the need to lighten the atmosphere of the room but it proved unnecessary. Christine was preternaturally serene.

"Madame, tell me everything about _him_."

Minette drew in her breath to expel her protests but they died on her tongue. There was a troubled light in Christine's face evocative of _The Sistine Madonna_ by Raphael. What was the use in denying her? The girl had been granted a box seat to view his descent into hell. She deserved to know why.

Christine closed her eyes as Madame finished. What she had heard broke through any remaining wall of her naiveté regarding angels and demons. How could a human being have suffered so much and still be capable of so much beauty. She began to understand how a person could be driven to blood lust. She felt her own hands clenching in rage at the traveling fair gypsy; she would have made his death a thousand times more painful for harming her Angel. Suddenly his words in the lair connected. No kindness, no compassion, just constant threat and animosity. _What kind of life had he known?_ Was Madame's tale the evidence of what she had unknowingly sensed all those months ago? Was her asking for God for courage to show him he was not alone a glimpse, not of the woman she was, standing knee-deep in that dirty lake water, but the woman she was predestined to be.

It hung at the edge of her consciousness, something she had forgotten, something she needed to kno…

"Madame, what is his name."

Erik de Carpentier. Christine stared idiotically at Minette and struggled to gather her wits. Erik? It was a familiar name from her native land. How had he been given a name that was so connected to her heritage? For some reason she thought of Father.

"What of his life before your rescue? Did he disclose any of it to you?"

Minette considered her next words carefully. "Christine, you must understand this about Erik. My relationship with him had always been dictated by his terms. If he wanted to communicate something to me, he would; if not, he would not. The time before he lived with the gypsies as well as the time he disappeared after my marriage to Jules Giry was walled off in him. When I first rescued him, I asked any number of questions only to be told that he did not remember. Being young, I assumed it was possible that he had no memory but I now excuse my gullibility due to my lack of experience with him. The reality is that Erik never forgot anything, whether it was scores to untold numbers of operas or the facts of his existence."

"Christine, do you remember when my mother died?"

Christine nodded, recalling Madame Giry's stoic acceptance of her mother's death and Meg's grief at losing a beloved grandmother. How old was she at the time—fourteen?

"Maman never approved of my choice of career. After all, she was a respectable bourgeois dressmaker, struggling as a widow to raise a family. My apprenticeship at the Populaire eased her of one financial burden. Moreover, she came to respect Jules as well as dote on Meg."

"Erik came to me late one night, shortly before the funeral. It was one of the rare times that he ever visited my dressing room. Since his return to the opera house a few months after your arrival, his contact with me was restricted mostly to exchanged notes secreted in a concealed panel in box five. Perhaps he thought any physical contact with him would be too revealing. What little I saw of him convinced me that the shadows of his existence before his first sojourn at the Populaire had been replaced by a _blackness_ on the second."

"You can imagine my amazement when I realized Erik was making a condolence visit. The idea that he would indulge in such a conventional societal obligation stunned me. He never did anything conventionally. I suppose he considered himself beyond the pale of normal social intercourse. Nevertheless, I found myself talking about Maman, her dissatisfaction with my career but her eventual joy with Meg that allowed our rapprochement. Astoundingly, he began to speak of his own mother, of her fear and hate not only of his face but also of his nonconformity. His father dealt with him by being away often and mostly, when present, refusing to acknowledge his existence, which Erik found less painful than his mother's active animosity. This intolerable situation drove him to seek refuge with a visiting gypsy band at the tender age of six."

"Christine, you look surprised that such a young child would venture into the unknown. I suspect Erik had always been a law unto himself from the moment he was born. Perhaps his disfigurement just exacerbated his disconnection from mankind. His hope that the gypsies would accept him out of a sense of their own disenfranchisement in the world was dashed by a cruelty he had not previously encountered."

"I did not see Erik for months after this conversation. Perhaps he felt that, in a fit of humanity, he had exposed too much of himself to me. I often wondered what he revealed you. He had more personal interaction with you than any other."

_Yes, he did have more contact with me but I only recognized the Angel without a thought for the man. Were they the same? No, the Angel was my guide and guardian. The man behind the monster fell in love with me._

"When I was younger, I would ask those questions and request to see him. He always deflected my inquisitiveness, though never harshly. At some point I stopped." _Yes, Christine, you stopped. At some point, even Little Lotte could not deny the presence of a living man behind that voice. Hannibal made it possible for you to ask one last time…_

Madame continued, "You asked what I know of him. I know his last name, that he is nearly thirty-three years old, that he was born in Normandy, that his father was a master stonemason and contractor who worked mainly in partnership with one architect on distant projects. His mother tended house and made his life hell. Even his birthdays would have gone unnoticed had not the architect sent him a remembrance of the day, much to the disgust of his mother. But she dared not flout her husband's employer and gave the presents to Erik. He carried the remains of one as I rescued him. It was a cloth monkey with cymbals in its paws."

Christine lurched at the mention of the monkey. _The papier-mâché music box in the lair_. He had meant it for her. She now understood its importance; it reflected his limited understanding of the nature of gift.

"Madame Giry, do you know where he is?"

Minette replied truthfully, "No, Christine, I do not."

Christine signed and stared out the window again.

"You and I are the only souls in Paris who know his true name. Even Monsieur le Vicomte did not ask…" Minette's voice trailed off as she saw Christine turn her head, her eyes sharpening in intensity.

"When did you speak to Raoul of him?" Madame threw up her hands as if to push away the question but Christine would not be budged. "When, Madame Giry?"

"After the Phantom's disappearance during Masquerade. I told him of Erik's life with the gypsies and that he had lived under the opera house since. Since I did not know of his life during my marriage, I felt it best not to complicate matters by revealing that piece."

_So Ang---Erik, damnation, she would call him by his Christian name; he was a human being who merited that dignity. So Erik was not the only one to whom she had given her mind blindly. If Raoul had told her of what he knew, she might have been able to halt that spiral of madness that sealed all of their fates that night._

"Madame, the story is only half told. You deserve to know the rest." Christine went down once more into the dungeon.

As Christine relayed the story of that night, she kept her eyes trained on her tightly clasped hands in her lap. She could not bear to look at Madame for fear she would not be able to continue. At its conclusion, she gathered her courage to glance at Madame and was shocked to her core. It was the first time she had ever seen Minette Giry in tears. Racing to her side, she took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and proceeded to dry Madame's tears, all the while remembering how this good lady had dried a sad little girl's tears at her father's death. Christine embraced her, kissing her cheek and whispering "God bless you for caring for Erik".

§

The next few days provided blessed relief from the turbulent storms that had threatened to overcome her. Her days were now spent in reflection and solitude. At first, she felt some pangs of regret that she was able to accompany Madame and Meg. Repairs on the Populaire were to the point that rehearsals could proceed, albeit, amid much sawing, hammering, and painting. Housekeeping and preparing the meals occupied some of her time. She did not wish to be so beholden to Madame for her hospitality and the other women had no complaint, as she was a far better cook. Still this could not be a permanent solution. She needed to make her way in the world, independent of the Giry's. But what? She was trained in ballet and voice but who would hire the notorious Christine Daaé who was kidnapped by the man who set the Opera House on fire and jilted by her aristocratic fiancé. The latter was a reasonable assumption because no pragmatically minded Frenchmen would consider that she had terminated the engagement.

Her future prospects troubled her mind but Erik was cutting up her heart's peace. Was he alive or was she deluding herself with more of Little Lotte's fantasies? Was he still in France and was he safe from the repercussions of that night? There was no more mention of the Phantom in the newspapers; it would seem that the Parisian appetite for gossip was inversely proportional to its attention span.

_Christine Daaé, you are a great fool, agonizing over a man who by all rights should be dead. _

_Then why do I still sense his presence so powerfully?_

_Did you sense his presence when Raoul cruelly informed you that he was dead?_

_How could I when I was beyond feeling my own presence?_

Was it their fate to realize their profound love for each other only to be separated by that discovery? She would have willingly sacrificed herself to stay with him but he rightly would not have it, fearing for her very soul, his demons not fully exorcised. And the ring? It was the only tangible representation of her gift to him, her heart for always even if her physical being could not share his darkness. Had her subsequent illness and Raoul's lie made her lose that vision? She thought of the wedding dress still wrapped in tissue in a corded box under her bed at the chateau, her only link to…

Realization sweep over Christine in crashing waves. The wedding dress, the kisses, the ring being exchanged between him and her… No priest may have been in attendance but they had pledged to each other in near covenantal ferocity. The source of her pain and grief nigh to transporting her to the edge of madness became blindingly clear; she had considered herself _married_ to him.

A knock on the front door distracted her from the sob that was forming in her throat. _Who is it? How can I possibly entertain guests with my mind reeling?_

Her first inclination was to ignore the knocking but she was puzzled that someone would be visiting during an hour when the Giry's would be in attendance at the opera house. As she turned the knob and opened the door, she struggled to maintain her equanimity over the sight that greeted her. The Comtesse de Chagny was fidgeting on her door stoop, a mild look of irritation on her face.

"Christine, have your manners deteriorated to this extent since leaving my residence? I have been waiting outside for an intolerable length of time. Allow me to enter, girl."

Christine spent the next several minutes attending to Madame's comforts, offering her a chair and refreshments. The mundane pleasantries gave her time to marshal her wits for she felt they were likely to be needed in anything regarding the Comtesse.

She had not long to wait. Madame was a firm believer in the efficiency of brutal candor.

"Well, Christine, it would seem you are destined to chart a course of scandal for you life. I know what prompted your fleeing…"

"How—who…" Christine stammered.

"_I am always aware of what is happening in my house,_" Madame thundered back. "Particularly as this event has serious consequences for my family. Besides, neither of you took heed to control your voices.

"Raoul departed by train for Le Harve the next day to sail to America. He will meet his father and stand in his stead for an indeterminate time as regards to the family's business interests. I will have my husband back but at the price of my son."

Christine allowed herself some remorse at Raoul's desperate leave taking and the pain it was inflicting on Madame. But it could not be helped.

"As I said, I know what prompted your leaving." Raoul is a good boy and someday he may be a great man. However, when he reacquainted with you at the opera house, he had no idea of what events had already been set in motion. It would seem that you did not either." Christine hung her head in shame at the truth of Madame's last remark. She had not understood her emotions until they all had come crashing down around her.

"To lie to you about _him_ in such a manner was unforgivable." Madame closed her eyes momentarily. _The sins of the mothers are visited upon the sons… _"But he did what any boy of his generous nature would have done; he tried to rescue you, Christine. It would seem that you were not destined to be rescued by my son and now I fear his heart is broken."

Christine realized she had been allowing her anger at Raoul to assuage her guilt. His grave misstep did not erase the fact that he did love her with all the youthful maturity that was available to him. Perhaps in another place, another time but, no, Madame was correct. Events had already been set in motion from the time she was a child.

Madame continued. "Christine, I find you to be an exceptional young woman and there is a part of me that will always regret that you will not be my daughter. But this man you chose to love must have been beyond extraordinary. I wish I had known his acquaintance."

"Madame, he _is_ beyond extraordinary and I shall introduce you to him."

§

The Comtesse leaned back in her chair ordering her face to remain frozen in an expression of polite interest. Inside she felt the shard of ice that had lodged her heart over thirty years ago begin to melt and threaten to drown her entirely. She broke its momentum with a quip.

"Christine it would seem that the only way for you to avoid your proclivity for scandal is to take Holy Vows."

Christine grinned at the remark and took Madame's hand in affection.

Madame sighed. "It probably wouldn't do. You are an opera-singer. Be ready for my carriage promptly at ten-thirty tomorrow morning. We will be calling upon Messieurs Firmin and Andre in regards to your career."

"Madame, you cannot be serious! The scandal I brought upon them…"

"Has been replaced by any number of scandals in Paris since. Don't' tell me you are afraid?"

Christine defiantly lifted her chin. She had been through too much to allow fear to rule her life again. _But to return to the opera house after so long a period…_ No, she would return if only to prove to that ghosts do not exist.

"Madame, you are being so kind in spite of the hurt I have brought to your family."

"Why"

The Comtesse felt an overwhelming need to confide in this girl. The ice was melting rapidly.

"Christine, we are not given a choice as to our birth relations but sometimes we can create relations as close, if not more so, from shared understandings. I feel that tie to you." Madame gathered Christine's hands in hers and breathed deeply.

"His name was Dominic. I met him at an evening party where the younger guests were entertaining their elders with songs and piano selections. Did you know I was a singer also, Christine? Perhaps Raoul inherited his vocal gifts from me. Notwithstanding, my father encouraged my lessons though I knew that as the daughter of a nobleman, my singing would be limited to the entertainment of my family and its circle of influence. The concept of going on the stage was unthinkable for a daughter of the aristocracy."

"I was seventeen and he was twenty-four—tall with black hair and black eyes. Our introduction caused quite the stir that evening. I was singing with my accompanist, a reserved, young man when Dominic quietly walked up and in a low voice suggested to him in the most politely menacing terms that I have ever heard that the young man might wish to vacate the piano seat posthaste. I was torn between consternation and amusement at the young man's hasty decampment. Dominic sat down and commanded that I resume. I was so astounded that I complied. After regaining my composure I found my voice rising to the level of his exceptional musical abilities."

"Afterwards he made sure that only he was allowed to accompany me during my pieces and exerted every effort to monopolize my attention during the interludes. My young friends thought it highly amusing while the elders shook their heads at his display of appalling manners. Later in the evening, I overcame my reserve to ask him why he had chosen my performance to disrupt. He said that the earlier performances reminded him of bleating sheep but that I sang like the angels. At that point I stopped caring about the gossip."

"We continued to meet at various social gatherings since his family was of equal if not greater social prominence than mine. When he took me to the dance floor for the first time, I later was told that other couples had stopped just to stare at us. We made quite a striking appearance, both tall, but with my fair coloring a startling contrast to his dark looks."

"It was an unconventional courtship by any measure, one of music, dancing, passionate embraces, and dramatic arguments and reconciliations over inconsequentials. My parents approved of his rank and wealth but felt uneasy as to what they sensed was an unconventional aspect to his nature. They were correct. He seemed to pick and choose his own rules of behavior without giving any credence to the social dictates which governed our class."

"I soon felt exhausted from being caught between my parent's desires that I contract a more suitable match and Dominic's desire to ask my father's permission to pay his addresses. One night during a waltz, Dominic whispered in my ear, ever pressing his case for our engagement. Reacting to the unbearable pressure from all sides, I disengaged myself from him and walked off the dance floor. I strode back to my mother who was looking at me with horror for walking away from a dance partner, even Dominic, and exposing myself to censure for such an impropriety. I glanced for at instance at him on the dance floor partnerless. While I was merely angry, Dominic's face was livid with fury. In a flounce of pride I turned my back on him and proceeded to the supper tables without an escort."

"My mother, reacting to my second impulsive action of the evening, signaled a young gentleman to follow me and offer a suitable escort. Dominic's unofficial courtship of me had driven off a number of potential suitors but this young man seemed less inclined to be intimidated. He had called on me on several occasions and my parents approved of his genteel manners and family connections. I found him a bit conventional but it was true that I needed an escort to repair my social gaff on the dance floor.

"As we reached the tables I impulsively changed my mind and asked to go to the terrace for fresh air. Our lover's quarrel seemed to have changed the very temperature of the ballroom and I felt closed in from all sides. The chill in the air outside seemed to reflect my thoughtless cruelty towards Dominic, causing me to break into tears. The young gentleman implored me to stop but I had no control over them. What he did next, while perhaps meant with the greatest of innocence, was to determine the course of the rest of my life. Seeing that I would not be comforted, he bent down and brushed his lips against mine for a fraction of a second. It could not have been any longer because Dominic had shoved him onto the terrace tiles in a fit of rage."

"What ensued was a cacophony of accusations, threats, and demands for satisfaction. I begged each of them to reconsider, if not for their own sakes then for the scandal it would bring upon me. But Dominic's intractability would not let the matter die. He would have satisfaction at all costs."

"Oh yes, he received his satisfaction. Supposed friends were more than eager to apprise me of the outcome of the duel. They met the next day in the _Bois de Boulogne_ with pistols. It would seem that Dominic's anger spurred him to draw blood instead of deloping and settling the matter in a peaceable manner. He won the draw for first shot and aimed at the young gentleman's left arm. Then things went very wrong. The young gentleman, startled by the blow, wildly discharged his own weapon with deadly consequences. My beautiful Dominic lay dead on the ground, blood pouring from the wound to his head."

Christine gasped at her last words. Was Raoul's lie an unconscious echoing of his mother's grief?

Madame sneered, "Dueling is a sophistical practice, a way for men to exhibit the full extent of their barbaric nature, legally and morally protected from repercussions under the guise of a civilized code of conduct. Murder is against the law of God and man but at least it is exhibits a certain perverted honesty in comparison."

"In light of the scandal my family felt it best I retire to our country estate and I was in no emotional condition to refuse them. For several years, my solitude there became my refuge against my pain and my regrets. It was years later that I returned to Paris and met Raoul's father, Michel de Chagny. Of course, he had some knowledge of my past but we did not discuss it. He offered me safety and comfort for which I was lovingly grateful. He was not my _Grande Passion_ but I was no longer a young girl seeking the unattainable and forbidden. We were married and Raoul was born in due course. He proved to be my miracle. After the destructiveness of my youth, it was my joy that I was able to create something of such beauty and gentleness. I had hoped for other children, perhaps a daughter, but Raoul was always, had to be always enough."

Christine squeezed Madame's hands in empathy. It was bittersweet consolation that another person could so intimately understand her suffering. She felt less alone.

"Christine, Raoul knows nothing of this and it is my hope that he never will."

"Madame you have nothing to fear from me on that matter but I still do not understand why you are insistent on sponsoring the resumption of my career."

"Child, it pleases me for you to have an opportunity denied me." _As well as any other opportunities denied…_


	9. Chapter 9

**Far Too Many Notes**

The sputtering sound from Monsieur Andre's desk instantly attracted Monsieur Firmin's attention. Proceeding on the assumption that his partner had choked on his tea, Firmin attempted to slap him on his back but Andre pushed him away.

"Read this," he wheezed, handing Firmin the tea-splattered note.

_Gentlemen,_

_I wish to call upon your offices at 11 o'clock tomorrow morning. Please be advised that Mademoiselle Christine Daaé will be in attendance with me._

_I remain, &c.,_

_Madeleine, Comtesse de Chagny_

"Andre, whatever does this mean?" The rest of Paris may have moved on to other scandals but Firmin and Andre had hardly forgotten the terror of that night in which they had providentially escaped financial ruin. While the de Chagny family had never officially withdrawn their patronage, the Comtesse had never been involved, and now she was bringing that blasted Daaé girl in tow. Had not he pointed out the Epoch's gossip page to his partner indicating the rumor of a broken engagement between the Vicomte and Mlle. Daaé?

Firmin sighed, "Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves."

The next morning Madame imperiously swept out of her carriage and mounted the steps to the Opera Populaire while Christine followed in a more uncertain manner, nervously glancing at the cold granite splendor of the building's main entrance. She could not believe that she had agreed to this mad scheme. So many of her hopes had been shattered and burnt to ashes on this spot and yet she was walking into flames again. But if that bird of Egyptian mythology, the Phoenix, could rise from the ashes; why not could she? Christine raised her chin and adopted a regal stance. Madame looked back approvingly.

If Madame noticed the wide eyes and gaping mouths directed at Christine and her, she did not give any indication. Christine, of course, was aware; she knew many of these people. But Madame's example gave her courage as she held her head high.

As they entered the managers' offices, M. Andre was a bundle of nerves, stumbling over introductions and offers of refreshment while his taller business associate was grim and noncommittal. Madame surveyed the situation, realizing that Firmin would be the obstacle to the resurrection of Christine's career. Seated in the comfortable chair afforded her and sipping her coffee, she began her frontal assault on the two hapless managers.

"As my husband and son are out of the country on business, I have assumed the role of the de Chagny patroness for the Opera Populaire. As such I wish to sponsor Mlle. Daaé's resumption of her career…" The Comtesse' proposal was interrupted by a strangled croak from M. Andre and a thunderous scowl from M. Firmin who had not lost his voice.

"Madame you cannot be serious. The opera house is near to being renovated and you wish to resurrect the memories of the Opera Ghost with Mlle. Daaé. This is madness!"

Madame gave a little sign of exasperation. These fools did not have a clue as to the proper manner to run an opera house; no wonder it needed the Opera Ghost and perhaps, in some way, still did. Nevertheless, fools, particularly of the masculine persuasion can be swayed if one appealed to their vanity…

"Gentlemen, you were not able to amass you fortune in the scrap metal trade by being anything less than astute businessmen. The reopening of the Opera Populaire is about to test that shrewdness. The Opera Ghost, in his destructiveness, created an aura around this establishment, an aura of excitement and danger. If you do not deliver at least in part on that aura, you may find your public losing interest and finding other avenues of entertainment. I can only imagine the financial pressures you must suffer from the specter of _l'Opéra-Comique_. Engaging Mlle. Daaé would be a bold move in keeping with the image of the Populaire."

Christine followed Madame's discourse with morbid fascination. The thought of resurrecting her career on scandal was distasteful but less so than not singing at all. Besides, if anything, Christine was learning to be a pragmatist.

M. Andre found his voice.

"Firmin, the Comtesse may have a point. The outstanding subscription sales clearly have been driven by the mystery of the O.G., not the quality of the opera, which though the finest in Paris, still must deal with the competition of the music halls and the lesser opera houses. Why one of the patrons has engaged box five for the entire season, ordering it to remain empty in an apparent homage to the Phantom. To think otherwise is to lose profit."

Firmin's eyebrows raised in respect at M. Andre's last statement. He had felt that Andre had become overly sentimental about their venture into the world of the arts. It was good to hear him speak like a businessman again. The threat of _l'Opéra-Comique_ was no laughing matter. Perhaps this might work…

"Madame la Comtesse, I believe M. Andre and I are now in agreement. We will retain Mlle. Daaé and acknowledge our destiny." He rang for the secretary to bring the decanter of wine and wine glasses. After all had accepted their glasses, Madame stood up and raised her stem in toast.

"Christine, Gentlemen---that which cannot be avoided must be embraced. After all in the Parisian coin, gossip is worth its weight in gold."

"To the Opera Ghost. May his spirit be as alive for the benefit of the Opera Populaire as his person is undoubtedly dead."

Christine obligingly tapped her glass against the others but feigned sipping the wine. She would be damned in Hell before she would drink to Erik's death.

"My managers, I ask to be excused. I must consult with Maestro Reyer and M. Gabriel the chorus-master regarding the engagement of a vocal tutor. I have much work to do. Madame, I will rejoin you shortly."

Madame arched her eyebrows at Christine in amusement. "Christine, you might urge the messieurs to recommend a female tutor."

Christine reddened while her managers paled considerably, "Madame, your point is well taken." As she exited the offices, Madame turned to Firmin and Andre.

"Gentlemen, Christine will be no demanding La Carlotta. You may rest easy on that point. But she is shrewd and it would serve you well to give great consideration to her opinions, as do I."

Firmin understood the slight edge in the Comtesse's voice and bowed his acknowledgement. Andre remained oblivious to the last remarks so wrapped up was he in thoughts of another dilemma.

"Firmin, whatever will we tell La Carlotta?"

§

Christine had decided against rushing to the ballet studio to Madame Giry and Meg with her news but instead waited patiently for their arrival at the house. Meg was naturally ecstatic at her dear friend's good fortune but Madame, while please for Christine, seemed distant and preoccupied. At Minette's suggestion that they retire early to rest from the day's excitement, Meg begged to differ, but her mother's frown silenced her. Her foster sister was tired and pleased to take to her bed to recover from the morning's grueling interview. She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

Christine awoke with a start. Since leaving Raoul her sleep had not been cruelly disrupted by the old nightmares but neither did she have a sense of dreaming at all. What was waking her now? Did she hear noise downstairs? Meg was sleeping peaceably in the other bed in their shared room. Why was Madame moving about at this late hour?

She silently turned the knob on her door and crept like a ghost into the upstairs hallway. Certainly, Mme. Giry was downstairs; she could see the lamplight coming up the stairway. She advanced towards the stairs but froze in place at the sounds of a light tap on the front door.

Who would be calling at this unreasonable hour? Christine inched near the stairway, hearing the sound of the door opening and…

"Good evening, Minette."

Christine stumbled back as if invisible forces had noiselessly slammed her against the plaster walls of the upstairs hall. She tightly shut her eyes as if to focus all of her senses on her ability to hear. If she lived forever, she would never forget that voice, all smoke and honey.

"Good evening, Erik. As you can surmise, I received the note you had delivered to the studio this morning. This is a rather late hour to be calling socially."

Erik prepared to offer his regrets but was distracted. The room smelled lightly of violets, a scent that he knew Christine favored. _Had she visited recently? _

"Minette, my apologies. I was uncertain as to any reception an erstwhile phantom might receive in Paris."

"Erik in that respect you may be safer than you think but I would still err on the side of caution if I were you. I have not had any communication from you since that note when you said you had safely escaped Paris. So many strange things have occurred that I am convinced that a guardian angel has replaced that demon which was eating you alive."

Erik listened impassively to the tale of Piangi death, the nature of the rebirth of the Populaire, and the lack of interest on the part of the managers and subsequently the authorities to pursue the issue. Considering the wreck he had made of things, it was surprising how little accountability was being laid at the Phantom's feet. As for the demon he had, he was taking the appropriate steps to eradicate its existence.

"I had no intention of killing Piangi at that occasion, only rendering him senseless. I knew exactly was I was doing."

"And what of Joseph Buquet?"

"I killed him before he killed me. And perhaps the Phantom enjoyed that a bit too much. Buquet had seen my face when I interrupted his attempt to violate Meg. I would have been tempted to kill him then but I needed to get Meg to you for attention. I was uncharacteristically careless the night of _Il Muto_; he saw me exchange Carlotta's atomizer and was determined to hunt me down"

Minette closed her eyes as if shielding herself from that night when Erik carried a half-conscious Meg to her room. Joseph had sought revenge on her through her daughter for that slap in the dormitory. After Buquet's death, she informed the managers of his failed attempt on her daughter and his more successful attacks on other dancers who unburdened themselves to her after his demise. Fearing scandal, the managers made Buquet's death an accident. In some ways, the chief sceneshifter's death was more convenient than the possible alternative. It had not gone unnoticed in the flys that Buquet harbored a twisted interest in young Christine Daaé. If he had harmed her, _that_ Erik would have pulled down the opera house stone by stone.

She opened her eyes to take a long look at him. He was the same yet he was different. The white mask was firmly in place in stark contrast to his dark hair and apparel. But his eyes seemed different; their icy blueness had softened, reflecting a greater inner peace and a different sadness. Christine had left her mark on him.

"Erik, you have not asked about her."

"Minette, Christine made it possible for me to walk out of that lair and begin the search for my soul. But I am a work in progress and I would not deny her the stability that de Chagny can provide. At the time, I hoped that perhaps I might… But no, this is my gift to her."

Minette exerted great control not to box his ears. The girl had spent months emotionally walking barefoot on shattered glass for him and he was resorting to noble platitudes.

These same months had given Minette Giry ample opportunity to reflect on Erik, Christine and her role in the whole sad affair. She had trusted Erik with Christine beyond anything imaginable, knowing that he had the means to both promote the girl as a great diva and provide stability for her future. The ballet mistress had no wish for such a guileless young woman to fall into the traps that had so often led to degradation and ruin for other members of the _corps_. Erik would protect her fiercely and treat her honorably, satisfying Minette's obligation to the girl's late father. She had hoped that Christine's utter devotion to her music teacher would evolve into more tender feelings. Christine was no shallow ballet dancer; she had the innate ability to see beyond his face, given the chance. And God knows, she could have been Erik's desperately needed salvation.

_Neither she nor Erik had foreseen the reappearance of the Vicomte de Chagny._

_Christine's opportunity to choose became Erik's madness._

Minette became torn between loyalty to Erik, borne out of obligation for rescuing him as a young boy and gratitude for his financial assistance to her after her widowhood, and her promise to Gustave Daaé to guard Christine. Erik's _blackness_ had spiraled out of control, only to be broken by that confrontation in the lair after _Don Juan Triumphant_. He walked away a better man while Raoul walked away a lesser man. Christine walked away with love.

Offering a brief prayer for guidance, Minette continued.

"She and Raoul did not marry and are no longer betrothed."

Erik felt suddenly light-headed. In a moment he found his hard-fought peace at war with an emotion that had mostly eluded him all of his life and that he in turn had learned to reject. God help him, he must not feel hope.

"So de Chagny thought better of an alliance with a scandalous opera-singer. I had expected more of him." Erik's voice lightly dripped with sarcasm. He sensed the old animosity rising.

"No, she broke with him." Minette was both relieved and frightened to see evidence of his passion for Christine. This must be handled carefully.

"Then in time, she will regret her decision and he will take her back. Christine has that power over the both of us." Erik twisted his lips in a rueful smile.

You are wrong, Erik. This break will not be mended."

"Why are you so certain, Minette? What happened between them?" Erik felt hope attempting to twist like a silken thread around his heart; he would break it with his bare hands if need be.

"It is not my place to tell you but I will tell you that whatever was said has driven him from France to America."

"Do you mean he left her to fend for herself?" Erik felt his anger rising after months of trying to master it. The fact that it was righteous anger at that idiotic boy's actions somewhat assuaged his fear of not being able to control it.

"No, she is here with me." Minette was tempted not to tell him that piece of the puzzle but some inner voice prompted her.

Erik glanced up the stairs. _That she was so close by…_ He willed himself to stay in his chair and not run up those stairs to hold her as she lay sleeping. Too often, he had hurt her and their love by his selfish, destructive actions. And what of her feelings? It was one thing to break with de Chagny but another to turn to him after all this time. Minette interrupted his thoughts.

"Erik, there is more. She has been retained by the Populaire and will start tomorrow training for lead soprano."

He snorted at the insanity of it all. Somehow, Christine had accomplished what he had unsuccessfully attempted for her.

"Minette is she even aware of my existence? Does she know that I have written you?"

"Everyone in Paris assumes you are dead. I am the only one here who knows that you live. I have not talked to her about my contact with you. She only asked if I knew where you were to which I truthfully replied no. My intuition tells me that she believes you to be alive but she is keeping her own counsel."

Erik toyed with disappointment that she had not sought him but dismissed it out of hand. Of course, she had no way of finding him. He had taken great pains conceal any trails that might lead to the Phantom. His presumed death fit well with that scheme.

For a man accustomed to meticulous planning, the past few months his life had been a series of daily resolutions to claim his peace and sanity after that mad night in the lair. Christine's love had given him the impetus to make the journey out of that hellish prison. That fate had interceded for hope in offering her as a possible traveling companion terrified him to his core. He needed time to reflect.

"Minette, I will take my leave of you and return to my estate in Normandy. You look surprised. It was my intent to take Christine there after _Don Juan Triumphant_. Events decided otherwise."

She observed a wave of pain slip over his face. Yes, there were many things to regret from that night.

"And Christine?"

"Tell her nothing of this meeting. She has been given a second chance in her career in spite of my actions. I would not deny her that. My one request is that you notify me of her premier opera so that I may witness her triumph. I will not deny myself that."

Minette attempted to form words of protest but thought better of it. Erik was exhibiting a cautious, albeit, welcome maturity regarding Christine; perhaps it was the better plan. Still she worried about his walking into the lion's den of the Populaire. Her fear must have been evident on her face in light of his next statement.

"The Phantom no longer exists. I am now Erik de Carpentier. Think, Minette, only four people alive have seen the Phantom and this particular mask; to others he was a dark presence just out of their focus. I believe I can rely on your, Meg's, and Christine's discretion. De Chagny is no longer in France. I am more concerned about my unmasked face."

She could at least offer him some small reassurance on that point.

"Erik, the period of time between your unmasking and descent through the trapdoor was brief. Eyewitness accounts of your appearance ranged from the hideous to the amusing. The trauma of the chandelier collapse seemed to have distorted people's memories and may have offered you the best protection. Meg and I offered our own embellishments. She insisted to the police that you were 215 centimeters while I reported you were not a millimeter above 200."

Minette was please to see him truly smile for the first time that evening but then it changed in an instant.

"Surely the authorities interviewed Christine and de Chagny. They witnessed everything in the cellars."

"Christine swore in her statement to the examining magistrate that she had no memory of ever seeing you at any point including your appearance during _Don Juan Triumphant_. Her claim was that you mesmerized her and erase all memory of your appearance from her mind. Furthermore, she claimed Raoul found her walking around in a wedding dress unsure of how she got there but with no indication of your whereabouts. Raoul corroborated her version of those events. The authorities were in no position to question the word of a politically connected Vicomte and his fiancée. I have since gained respect for Christine's gifts of persuasion. Raoul was not particularly adverse to the mob killing you. She secured his cooperation by threatening to return to you and risk being killed with you. Still, I was glad she left for the de Chagny chateau immediately. She had endured enough gossip about her relationship with a nobleman. The scandal of the Phantom and a diva in a wedding gown with no memory of events destroyed any remaining shreds of her reputation."

Erik was torn between pride at her courage in protecting him and shame that his actions had driven her to such a point. That she was willing to risk her life for his moved him profoundly.

"I must leave, Minette. I will write you with my address so that you may apprise me of Christine's premier. She need never know that I will be there. I may no longer be a ghost but I do remember his tricks." With an unexpected kiss to her cheek, he disappeared into the night.

Once outside Erik fought to maintain his composure against the emotions that threaten to overtake him. Was he mad to leave without seeing her? _No, the madness would lie in seeing her._ He needed to feel confident in his sanity before he would approach her and risk her life again. He entered the waiting carriage to journey to a small flat in the Rue de Rivoli.

Christine willed her breathing to return to normal upon hearing the front door latched for the night. She had not allowed herself the luxury of a deep breath, fearing detection from Madame and Erik. She instinctively fled to her bedroom upon hearing Madame's steps on the stairs but returned to the hall upon hearing Madame's bedroom door close. As she crept down the stairs to the parlor, her eyes became more accustomed to the shadows. _No, she was not dreaming; he had been here._ Memories of his scent as he embraced her on the bridge washed over her. In this room, she felt she was drowning in him. Her feet propelled her to the largest chair in the room. _Yes, he was here_ and she sank down into the cushions with a sigh of transcendent joy.

§

The Persian, as he was known throughout Paris, had long become accustomed to Erik's unconventional comings and goings. Receiving a note yesterday and having the former opera ghost land on his doorstep a short time earlier this evening was tame in comparison to some of the Frenchman's other exploits. Nadir, as he was know to a very few, sighed that his Eastern sense of hospitality was keeping him up at such a late hour to welcome Erik back, nonetheless was hopeful that something entertaining would come of it. Though they had exchanged but a few pleasantries earlier, Erik had been uncharacteristically straightforward in admitting he was visiting Mme Giry. And visiting Mme. Giry meant that he was visiting the little Daaé, except that Nadir had not divulged that piece. It was the Persian's custom to frequent the opera house and he knew its gossip as well as any dresser or musician. The young diva had returned but this time without the protection of her powerful Opera Ghost.

Erik quietly entered the unlock entry door, not particularly surprised to see the daroga waiting up for him. It would give him a chance to settle matters between them over his visit to Minette's.

"Well, Erik, I trust you found the good widow in excellent health?" Nadir was beginning to relish this.

Erik sauntered gracefully into the sitting room, unbuttoning his coat along the way. Settling into a large, comfortable chair across from the Persian, he then pocketed his stickpin and loosened his cravat. The daroga had always been amazed by Erick's ability to disguise his age by means of his posture and the expression on the exposed side of his face. What a brilliant future in the theater would have been his except for the wreck that was the other side of his face. Right now, the Frenchman appeared younger by several years and uncharacteristically relaxed except…Erik informally crossed his legs and leaned his chin on folded palms in an attitude of prayer. From the look in his eyes, Nadir did not think he was praying.

"Daroga, what purpose did it serve your devious Persian mind in not informing me of Christine's living arrangement with Mme. Giry?"

Nadir mused that some aspics regarding Erik might never change, particularly his habit of sardonic retorts when crossed. The managers felt that often enough. "Why, Erik, the little Daaé is residing with the lovely Girys? How cozy. Why would I be privy to such information?"

"My friend, you know the name of the Emperor's next mistress before he knows it himself. There is nothing at the Populaire or for that matter Paris, which escapes your attention. Your knowledge of gossip would put the ballet brats and ladies of the Court to shame."

"Well, I might know something of her situation. Shall I tell you, Erik or perhaps the exquisite mademoiselle has already told you her story?" Nadir knew his speech was reckless and he knew what kind of man Erik _was_. Picking at this scab, though inherently dangerous, would give him a clue as to how much Erik had changed.

Erik continued to stare impassively at the daroga, willing his intellect to control his emotions that had been sorely exposed earlier in the evening. He knew the Persian was goading him and he would not rise to the bait.

"I did not see or speak to Christine. She was abed as would be expected this late hour."

Nadir snorted at the younger man's composure, "By Allah, Erik, you have become so _civilized_. That in itself deserves a reward. I will tell you what I know in any case."

"Why are you certain I wish to know anything?"

"Because we are not talking about the latest Court gossip or the newest production at the opera house. We are talking about the little Daaé." Nadir was not fooled by Erik's apathy. He had known this man a number of years and he knew the girl was a wound that had never quite healed.

Shrugging his shoulders in that infuriating French manner guaranteed to annoy Nadir, he purred, "Do as you wish."

"Erik, stop being an ass; you can't humbug me. It is no secret in the gossip pages that M. le Vicomte and Mlle. Daaé are no longer betrothed. In any case, I was at the Populaire today to witness the little Daaé's triumph. Might I say she looked particularly fetching? This past year seems to have wiped that adolescent dreaminess out of her face and replaced it a woman's self-assurance. She and the beautiful boy's _maman_ marched up to the front doors like a princess imperial and her empress mother. I followed behind at a discreet distance, watching the eyes pop out of the heads of the stray chorus members as the two passed through the foyer. The ladies met with the managers for a period and then the little Daaé came out and met with Reyer and Gabriel. At some point later, the ladies rejoined to march out the front entry and enter the waiting carriage. The amiability between the two was a wonder to behold. I suspect that the beautiful boy's _maman_ was gratified to have her man-child back in the family bosom, singularly unencumbered, and that the little Daaé was equally gratified to have accommodated her wishes. Perhaps M. le Vicomte overestimated his charms, meaning perhaps that you underestimated yours, Erik."

"Charming is hardly a feature I would include in my arsenal of character traits." Erik decided to allow some of the daroga's less flattering remarks to fall harmless by the wayside. "Very well, I will bite since it amuses you so to puncture my dignity. What of the "beautiful boy"?"

"Ah, that is still a mystery, my dear fellow. M. le Vicomte's coterie of equally beautiful but vapid noble bloods is mystified by his actions. He bade them goodbye but told them nothing of his reasons for leave-taking to America. All agree that he was in a thunderous mood, a telltale sign that the lady in question ended the engagement. Perhaps the little Daaé would have found him more appealing if he had exhibited such passionate decisiveness with her while they were still betrothed. But you would know more about that than I, would you not, Erik?"

Erik gave the Persian a warning flash of light from glacial eyes. "Daroga, I wish to believe I have evolved from that beast under the opera house to a reasonable semblance of a human being. Thus said, please remember that I aspire merely to be human, not saintly."

Nadir's unexpected laugh elicited a hint of a smile from Erik. "Erik, I should hate you if you aspired to sainthood. Be satisfied with humanity."

With that, Erik arose abruptly. "Nadir, I bid you goodnight. Tomorrow I return to Bezancourt."

The Persian was stunned, "But the little Da…"

"Mademoiselle Daaé will be in deep preparations for her opera role. I will return for her debut."

Nadir wondered how Erik expected to execute that little feat but expected it to be imaginative. For the Persian, haunting the Populaire would prove to be far more gratifying with the little Daaé in residence.

"Erik," said Nadir to the Frenchman's retreating back.

"Yes, Daroga?"

"Pleasant dreams."

§

Minette gave up on sleep that night and rose early to begin preparations for breakfast. This was to be Christine's first day back at the opera house. A special breakfast would celebrate the occasion and take her mind off events of the previous night. She stopped by the parlor to retrieve her forgotten shawl and was dumbstruck by the sight before her eyes. Christine, still in her nightgown, was curled up asleep in the very chair that Erik had occupied. _Mother of God, did the girl know he had been there?_

As she put her hand on the girl's dark curls, Christine awoke with a start. Minette watched as sleep faded from her eyes to be replaced by a blazing intensity that she thought only Erik's possessed.

Minette knelt beside her chair and stroked her hair. "So my child, I see you are aware of what occurred in this room last night."

Christine nodded mutely. "Madame, I was standing upstairs in the hallway. I beg you, please, do not let him know any of this. He is battling his fear both for me and of me. Heaven knows I have given him reason to distrust me with my inconstancy."

Madame frowned at the last sentence. Erik was not the only one who needed absolution; Christine would need to forgive herself at some point.

"Come, Christine, waken our sleepy ballet dancer upstairs. Both of you dress as quickly as possible. We will prepare a sumptuous breakfast and take a cab to the opera house together."

§

Christine's meeting with Messieurs Reyer and Gabriel proved successful. Together they had devised a list of suitable vocal tutors, evaluating the positive and negative attributes of each candidate. She was to deliver the list to M. Rémy, the managers' secretary, to arrange interviews. Until the Opera had hired her tutor, she would train under the auspices of M. Gabriel. After this matter had been settled, Christine sweetly asked Maestro Reyer for permission to visit the orchestral library. She wished to review its inventory of operas to familiarize herself with possible offerings in the future. Reyer escorted her there and bade her to take her time but not to forget to give the list to the secretary.

The maestro would have been surprised at just how little time Christine spent in the library. Because the operas were arrange by title she was able to locate the score she needed in due course. She tucked it under her arm and made her way to the managers' offices, deep in thought about her scheme.

_I know you will be there when I perform this opera. My Angel, music is our first language. In Don Juan Triumphant, you would have me know of your rage and desire. In this, I would have you know of my rage and grief._

"M. Rémy, here is the list of candidates for my vocal tutor. Would you contact them for interviews? As I will be in lessons with M. Gabriel in the mornings, the afternoons would be more suitable for appointments. Also, would it be possible for my managers to see me on such little notice?"

M. Andre had not expected to see Mlle. Daaé so soon after yesterday but Firmin seemed unsurprised. He remembered the Comtesse's veiled remarks about the young girl's opinions. Still, he would hear her out.

"Messieurs, the Maestro has informed me that Carlotta will reopen the Opera in mid-December with _The Marriage of Figaro_. Both men inwardly groaned. Was Mlle. Daaé about to challenge their choice of Carlotta for the opening opera? The idea of the two divas battling over this honor was enough to induce an attack of dyspepsia in both men.

"I think you have made a wise decision. I am in no way ready to present myself on such a momentous occasion. I have another idea for my debut." The managers' surprise and obvious relief amused Christine. She would use it to her advantage.

"I would suggest a single performance on December 30th of an opera of my choosing. One performance is nearly unheard of and is bound to gather attention and interest in my career. By the way, the title of the opera would remain secret until the actual performance. The billboards would simply announce the return engagement of Christine Daaé with appropriate date and time. The rehearsals would be held offsite as to maintain the suspense. I assure you that ticket sales will topple any previous receipts.

Andre found himself warming to the mystery of it while Firmin envisioned even further increases in future ticket sales. Neither could contain their curiosity and asked in unison the name of the opera. She handed the score to Andre who in turn handed it to Firmin.

Firmin was relieved to see that it wasn't that damnable _Don Juan Triumphant_. Although he was not aware of any remaining copies in existence, he would not have put it past this girl to have obtained a score. Still, he approved of her choice. It would prove an excellent foil to La Carlotta's inaugural role. The lead soprano role would play in the audience's memory long after they had left their seats. Since the Populaire had mounted it two seasons ago, the scenery would need little refurbishing.

"Andre, what do you think?" Firmin posed the question to his partner.

"Firmin, I think Mlle Daaé's choice may be a stroke of genius. This is certain to draw attention."

Christine threw him a dazzling smile. _Yes, I intend it to draw attention but not in the way either of my managers could imagine. _

"By the way, messieurs, what plans have been made for the annual New Year's masquerade ball?"

Andre and Firmin looked at her as if her riot of curls had turned into Medusan snakes.

"Due to last year's fiasco, the masquerade has been cancelled." Firmin replied with a shudder. Christine gave a little frown and allowed her reemerging smile to charm them.

"But gentlemen we are to embrace the Opera Ghost, not fear him. He cannot harm us now."

Andre responded, "That may well be, Mlle Daaé, but the thought of every other man donning a Red Death costume in order to emulate the Phantom would overset my constitution."

"Then M. Andre I may have a solution that will keep your constitution in good health. Why not hold a black and white masquerade? Anyone in any other color, particularly red, would be denied admission. And while we are celebrating why not add a gala performance to showcase the company's talent before the actual masquerade dance?"

M. Andre warmed to the boldness of her suggestion. Perhaps they could even advertise by billboard and newspaper that no one in other than black and white would be allowed to enter. Such a blatant restriction would incite gossip _and_ increased ticket sales. "What do you think, Firmin?" queried Andre while explaining the advantages of Mlle. Daaé's proposal.

M. Firmin still felt uneasy but it did seem to be a sound business proposition. The other musical venues would have their own New Year's Eve's offerings in competition. This publicity would give the Populaire a decided advantage in sales.

"Mademoiselle, you, M. Andre, and I are in agreement. We shall have M. Mercier, the business manager, formulate the arrangements."

Christine hoped her smile was not reflecting the amusement she felt inside. What had Erik called them, "those two fools running _his_ opera house"? _Oh, my Angel, it is so obvious they respond more agreeably to a woman's flattery than a man's threats._

§

A few days later Madame Giry presented her a letter from Erik. Christine's hands trembled slightly as she read it.

_Dear Minette,_

_I trust this letter finds you, Meg, and Christine enjoying good health. My current address will be found on the enclosed sheet. Again, I would ask that you contact me regarding the dates surrounding Christine's opening performance._

_As always, I rely on your silence in not acknowledging my existence to Christine._

_Your obedient servant,_

_Erik de Carpentie_r

Christine was torn between elation and vexation—elation that she wasn't dreaming, that he did exist, and vexation that his letter was so brief and unrevealing.

The following Sunday afternoon Christine was sitting at the keyboard of an extravagance afforded by her new salary. M. Reyer had been delighted to learn of her earnest studies at the chateau and offered lessons as both their schedules allowed. The weekdays were bearable due to her work at the opera house but the Lord's Day allowed her too much time for reflection when she desperately wanted resolution to her dilemma with Erik. Would her plan work? God help her it must, because the alternative was unbearable. Her fingers roamed slightly over the keys before settling on the Allegretto from Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, except that her mood changed it to _andante_. Its sad, urgent beauty seemed to reflect her inner state.

Her musical train of thought was broken by a knock at the door. Upon opening it she was delighted to see the Comtesse de Chagny. They had not communicated since the meeting with the managers.

"Christine, my dear, you look very well. No, do not offer me a seat. Gather your wrap. I have my carriage and am here to invite you for a ride." The Comtesse looked at the girl more closely as they walked toward the carriage. Something had happened; Christine glow could still be seen in the bright sunlight.

The next few minutes in the carriage were filled with descriptions of Christine's life at the Populaire and her plans for her opera debut. Madame tried to teased its title out of her but the girl wouldn't budge--only giving the date and time for it and the annual masquerade with its accompanying gala.

"Christine, the main reason I wished to see you this afternoon is to apprise you of my intention to leave for the chateau this week. I have arranged delivery of your new dresses to Mme Giry's…"

Christine choked on her refusals. "No, Madame I cannot accept those dresses; they were meant for the Vicomtesse de Chagny."

Madame sighed. "Proud girl, I expected as much. As a diva, you will need an appropriate wardrobe. I know your salary is handsome as I negotiated it while you were speaking with the maestro and chorus master. I will have my secretary send the bill to you. Do you find that acceptable?'

Christine felt somewhat dubious about the offer but had to admit the dresses were beautiful and chosen with her taste. She would accept but with reservations.

"Now that the matter is settled, I want to know what happened to you, girl, and I will not be put off as I was with your mysterious opera."

Christine gave a slight gasp and stared at Madame. The woman was uncanny. Before she could think of any plausible excuses, Madame broke in again.

"It's about _him_, I'm sure of it. Nothing else could explain your radiant complexion."

Realizing the futility of constructing a plausible tale, Christine nodded mutely. "Madame, not only is he alive, he visited Madame Giry late one night though he has no clue I overheard them."

Madame was dumbstruck, not that a ghost had come back to life but that Christine was behaving so _rationally_ about him. _If I were she, Hell would not keep me from going to him_.

"Christine, where is he?"

"I understand he has an estate in Bez… No, Madame, I will not divulge his secrets. Only Madame Giry is privy to that information." Christine did not fell it right to expose him even to the Comtesse whom she trusted greatly.

Madame's mind was racing with piecing the mystery together. _She was going to say Bezancourt or I will eat my favorite hat. Of course why did I not make the connection earlier---De Carpentier was the original de Chagny surname and Rouen area of Normandy is littered with descendents of the ancient de Carpentiers who migrated from Belgium and Holland. _What an utterly preposterous coincidence that this man might somehow be related to her husband's family!

"Christine, will you not make contact with him?"

"No, Madame. I am too closely associated with the madness; I am responsible for much of it. My gift to him is allowing him the luxury of knowing when he can tolerate me. He must come to me when he feels safe."

After Christine was delivered to the Giry's doorstep, Madame continued in her absorbed thoughts. Tomorrow she would send a letter to her _avocat_ to arrange a discreet investigation of M. de Carpentier.


	10. Chapter 10

**Secret and Strange Angel**

Erik relaxed at his piano, scribbling musical notes on the evenly lined paper. It was difficult to believe that he had come so far in his journey as to take pleasure in the ability to compose again. That night at Mme Giry's had broken open another level and allowed him to experience this particular joy. He felt Christine's sway over him, pushing him to create. Would it always be so, that she was his Muse? A slight knock at the door broke his concentration. The servants were instructed never to disturb him while he was in his music room.

The downstairs footman, Jean-Louis, obeyed his order to enter. Erik was surprised by the expression on the man's face. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"What is it? I do not take lightly to my orders being ignored as regards to this room." Erik spoke quietly but with firm intent.

"Sir, there is a lady to see you!" The footman was thunderstruck by this occurrence. The master had few male visitors, mainly regarding business affairs but to his knowledge, no _lady_ had ever crossed his threshold. He carried the silver salver with the lady's calling card.

Erik picked up the card and had his opportunity to be thunderstruck. _Madeleine, Comtesse de Changy_---that boy's mother? How the devil did she locate him? He was tempted to tell Jean-Louis to deny her entrance when the footman blurted out that there was a note on the back of the card.

_Monsieur, I wish to speak to you of Mlle. Daaé and return something, which I believe, belonged to you._

"Show the Comtesse to the parlor and inform her I will attend her in ten minutes. Make arrangement for tea to be served." Erik turned to his bedroom to repair his attire.

§

The journey by carriage had given the Comtesse de Chagny an undisturbed opportunity to reflect on the report from her _avocat_. It would seem that Erik de Carpentier was a mystery who had gone to great lengths to remain that way. It was barely fortunate that the investigation was able to locate his residence through the protected shielding he had erected to conceal its purchase and ownership. The initial purchase of the estate from a collective of master glassblowers in 1870 was covered with layers of agents and counterfeit purchasers. The _avocat,_ embarrassed that his investigators were unable to trace M. de Carpentier existence before the purchase, prompted the Comtesse to defer the search _for the moment_. She already knew a great deal about him from Christine and was willing to be patient in discovering more.

The drive to the front entry afforded her a grand view of Erik's manor. While not the largest of chateaux, it was still quite extensive with a pleasing mix of pink brick eighteenth century Georgian simplicity against the stunning backdrop of the Lyons Forest. Christine's Scandinavian sensibilities would be pleased at its elegant restraint. Her groomsman alit at the entry and returned with a footman to offer her escort. In a fit of nervousness, the footman apologetically deserted her in the foyer while searching for his master, her calling card in hand. Obviously, this household and its master were unused to unannounced callers. She had worded the message carefully on the back of her card to give him no excuse to dismiss her. The package at her side would prove further enticement.

Madame was please to see the servant return and show her to the parlor to await the master of the estate. The room was tastefully but beautifully decorated in green, whispering Christine in every detail. Was this the home he had prepared for her all those months ago? She idly mused over the concept of living with a man so in tune with one's very thoughts and found herself shuddering a bit. Moreover, what of that exquisite piano playing she had heard upon entering the house?

The Comtesse turned her head as the door clicked open and Erik entered the room. For a moment, she was rooted in her seat on the divan, staring unabashedly at him. The first word that came to her mind was formidable. He was elegantly dressed in black with a white mask covering the right half of his face. She noted everything about him, his straight, soft black hair, flawless pale skin, lashes that any woman would envy, his full, pouty lips, and the slight clef in his chin. But it was his eyes that stunned her. They were as icy blue as an arctic sea. That her gentle son would have dared to cross this man gave her a moment of pride and thankfulness that he survived the encounter. For Christine, she marveled at the girl's daring for even approaching this man, much less loving him.

She rose and gave him her hand, which he bowed over. Her first impression was correct; he was noticeably taller than her rangy son, with exquisite posture and the grace of a jungle cat. As he looked at her sternly, she wondered if she was going to blush, something she had not done in years. She would try for the conversational advantage

"Monsieur, I am not staring at your mask. I merely wish to judge the one man who could inspire such murderous intent in my son, normally the gentlest of souls. It would seem that he is unable to be within ten meters of you without being overcome by the desire to hack you to pieces. I suspect the feeling is mutual."

Erik was unable to suppress the twisted smile forming on his lips. In appearance, the Comtesse was an unsettling middle-aged female version of de Chagny, with her blonde/gray hair and cornflower blue eyes. However, it would seem the similarities ended in the physical. Gentle is not a word he would use to describe her.

"Madame, you no longer have any reason to fear for your son on my behalf." Erik hoped this was true.

The Comtesse was astounded at the sound of his voice, with its _au fait_ Parisian inflection lightly commingled with other influences. Its beautiful timbre and cadence had almost a _seductive_ quality.

"I will determine that myself. When you are a parent perhaps you will understand the need to ensure your children's safety."

Erik was disarmed by her last remark. _What did she mean by his being a parent?_

Madame continued. "Back to the subject at hand which is Christine Daaé. I have become quite close to this young lady in spite of her broken engagement to my son. And while she has shared with me many aspects of what happened between you, Raoul, and her, she has no idea that I have located you. Madame Giry told her your name. While Angel of Music is a charming moniker, Mme. Giry thought it best that she know you had a human name. Your surname intrigued me and I followed a hunch since the only de Carpentiers I knew of were in the Rouen area."

It disturbed him that the Comtesse had been able to find him. He was still trying to grapple with the concept of vulnerability. Still, she did not speak threat and it would seem that Christine trusted her a great deal.

As if reading his thoughts, Madame continued. "Sir, you have no reason to fear me. You can rest assured that you covered your trail well, using layers of property agents to obscure your purchase of this lovely estate. It is just that I have very good resources. Besides, I would never do anything to intentionally harm Christine and you fall under her mantle of protection. Ah, tea!"

The footman knocked and entered on Erik's command. After he had placed the tray, Erik invited Madame to do the honors. It gave him a few moments to digest her words. She politely asked him how wished his tea served. Privately, he wished it was brandy but, no, that opening volley convinced him that he needed his wits about him in dealing with the Comtesse.

"First, you will wish to know that Christine is doing well, particularly as regards her career. She and her managers have hatched some kind of secretive plot regarding her return performance and the New Year's masquerade and gala the following night. This is one week I will make sure I am in Paris. It is becoming the talk of the town." Madame noticed that some of the icy sternness was leaving his eyes to be replaced by a wary avidness. _Oh ho, monsieur, so you are interested in her._ She glanced down at the package beside her, vowing to weave the web a little tighter.

"Monsieur, I considered sending this to Christine as I am sure she had no intention of leaving it at the de Changy chateau on a permanent basis," Madame made a slight gesture to the corded package, "but my instinct guides me to return it to its original owner." The Comtesse handed it to a now bewildered Erik.

"After your contretemps in the opera cellar, Raoul gathered Christine and drove his brougham straight to our chateau here in Normandy, instead of waiting for the next morning's train. It was a long, arduous trip for them both. And by gathered, I mean literally that. The girl collapsed as soon as she was settled in the carriage, unaware that Raoul had directed the coachman to make haste to our chateau. It was when she was hours outside Paris that she awakened and realized her situation. You can imagine my surprise when my totally disheveled son presented his fiancée in a still damp wedding dress. The girl was undone by exhaustion and near to breaking. It took two maids to extricate her from the dress so intent was she in keeping it on. We put her to bed and I took charge of the dress. I had it repaired to the greatest extent possible; it obviously meant a great deal to her. It was only later she told me you have it made for her, for your wedding."

Erik broke the cords and opened the box. Yes, it was his dress for her, neatly folded in tissue. He touched it lightly, as if it were a sacred relic. She was wearing it the last time he saw her, when she left the cellars in the boat, leaning on the boy but looking across at him with her heart in her eyes.

Madame continued. "I insisted to Raoul that she be allowed to sleep as long as possible to regain her strength and composure. He was too exhausted to argue. Two days later the maid I assigned to her care reported that Christine was awake but shaking violently. I checked on her and felt a fever on her forehead. Our doctor confirmed my first thought. She had developed pneumonia, probably from extreme stress and exposure. Raoul was wild with fear, insisting on staying by her bedside. The best the doctor could do was to give her laudanum for the chest pain and coughing and hope her young constitution would outlast the contagion. We can travel great distances in trains, we can communicate by wire overseas, but we cannot obliterate diseases which are intent on destroying our bodies. Raoul came near to losing her, not by the pneumonia, but by a miscommunication. The maid attending her administered her morning dose but did not wake Raoul who was sleeping in a chair by Christine's bedside. When Raoul woke a short time later, he assumed by Christine's restlessness that she had not been medicated and proceeded to administer another dose. She nearly died that morning due to the excessive laudanum suppressing her respiration."

All the while Madame watched Erik's face. He was longer attempting to hide his emotions; in fact, he seemed near to tears.

_She waded out into that lake to consent to be my bride. She kissed me twice and breathed her soul into me. And she nearly died. I made her pay for the sins, which were mine. _

Madame would not let him remain in that place; her concern was with the future, not the past.

"Remarkably, her fever broke as she regained consciousness. The doctor was amazed by the swiftness of her recovery. I would pay short visits and found her to be a delightful girl, charming and gentle. But she set off a chain of events which sent my son to America in rage and despair and prompted my seeking you at this juncture. It would seem that Christine had not forgotten her Angel of Music. As soon as she was well enough to pursue the issue, she begged Raoul to find news of you."

"Feeling honor-bound to comply and fearing Christine's reaction if you were found to be alive, my son, unfortunately, took the path of least resistance. He told her you had been found dead in the cellars. Christine's reaction was to barricade herself in her room for three days. Raoul tried to break down her door but I stopped him and calmed him enough for an explanation of Christine's bizarre reaction. I was not satisfied; it was to be expected that you might have been killed in those cellars. Surely, Christine realized this possibility. I saw her again on the third morning eating breakfast with Raoul and talking pleasantries. Since then I have wondered if my son, in his joy at being with her, noticed that the Christine he knew had died and had been replaced by a stranger."

Erik swiftly stood up, turned his head, and gritted his teeth, refusing to let the tears fall from his eyes. He would not cry in front of de Changy's mother. She represented that young fool and his tears would only be for Christine. He walked over to the window and stared unseeingly at the grounds of his estate.

"Only later when my son prepared to leave the country was I able to coerce from him the rest of what he told her."

"Raoul has always been a source of pride for me but what he told Christine made me ashamed of him for the first time. Yes, he told her you were dead but he did not stop there. In his hatred of you, he told her that you had taken your own life. He rattled on about her wanting exact details…" Madame starred at Erik's back. Her first thought was about his rudeness in not facing her but she let it drop; it was obvious that he was struggling with her revelations. She found her eyes drawn to his mask in profile and gasped.

"Mother of God, this is worst than I could imagine. My poor dear girl!"

Erik spun around at her last words, shocked to see tears welling in her eyes. It instantly held his in check.

The Comtesse debated telling him the rest. He truly might wish to kill Raoul at this point; she gave a silent prayer of thanks for the ocean between this man and her son. Nevertheless, the truth needed to be revealed.

"Christine pressed him for details which he invented on the spot, not understanding her ghoulish reasoning. But I understand it. My son, in his foolish envy, made you much more powerful dead than alive. He told her that you had died from a gunshot wound to the left side of your face. I now understand what his revelation meant to her; she interpreted it and took your blood upon her hands."

Madame ached at what must have been Christine's suffering. Then she remembered the chapel.

"I now understand the mystery that occurred in my private chapel the morning Christine exited her room. It is my usual custom to pray early in the morning. On that particular morning, I found the altar heaped with roses and the altar cloth stained with blood. The roses looked to be ripped by human hands rather than cut, explaining the presence of blood. It was fortunate that none of the servants entered first or they would have spread it about that the Holy Virgin had visited my chapel. I am less inclined to mystery and thought someone on the estate was having a troubling religious experience. I search to see if anything else had been altered or disturbed. One of the missals also was covered with blood. I thumbed through it and noticed the pages where the blood was most concentrated."

"Monsieur, it is obvious that Christine performed what no priest of the Church would dare execute for a suicide. With her bloody hands she held the missal and intoned the _Requiem_ over your soul."

Madame found herself fascinated by the emotions passing over Erik's face—a perfect amalgam of rage and grief, his fists clinched so tightly as to cut off circulation. If she had been Raoul sitting in that parlor and drinking tea, she would not have given much for her continued existence. Then she saw him make a resolute effort to control himself and his face settled back into a sad sternness. She composed herself as well and continued.

"What my son did not reckon was little Meg Giry exposing his falsehood. While in Paris to shop for her trousseau, Christine secretively visited the Giry's and brought up the nature of your death. Meg's contradiction forced Madame Giry to reveal that the authorities had never found you alive or dead. Christine's reaction was to faint dead away. Obviously, the poor girl had been carrying an overwhelming emotional burden while trying to start a life with my son. When she recovered, she badgered Mme. Giry into offering her shelter and made arrangements unbeknownst to me to quit the de Chagny townhouse. But she did not leave until she had spoken to Raoul who was scheduled to arrive in town from the chateau a few days after her visit to the Giry's."

"Eavesdropping is a terrible vice and I do not excuse myself except to say that those two did nothing to govern their volume during their confrontation in the library. I was just thankful the servants were not anywhere near the vicinity. Christine attacked Raoul with no quarter; I neither have before nor since heard such rage in her voice. There seemed to be veiled references to that unfortunate opera of yours; I wish I had seen it even at the risk of having a chandelier dropped on my head. Some of what Christine said is too embarrassing to repeat but I will admit that your lady defended your manhood gallantly to my hapless son. I vacated the foyer as he slammed out of the library. Christine later told me she walked out the front door and took a cab to the Giry's." Madame hoped her attempt at levity would tease him out of his sadness and give him hope.

Erik could not believe his own voice; he was actually laughing at the Comtesse' remarks. How could he go from tears to laughter in such short order? He had experience Christine's anger but also her forgiveness. It would seem that de Chagny was not destined to be offered the latter.

_She was angry at my manipulation but she never expected it from that boy, making the wound that much deeper. _

"_Your lady defended you manhood gallantly?" Christine, what did you say to him?_

Madame allowed herself a moment of satisfaction but knew she had to press the case. "Monsieur, it would seem this war of hatred between you and my son always results in Christine's person being the battleground. You two may ultimately survive your battles but she is the one scarred by the experience. You have known the pain of losing her by your hatred and now my son feels that sorrow."

"Sir, it would seem that you have a choice to make. You either hole yourself up here the rest of your life mooning over Christine or take action."

Erik allowed himself a bitter smile. "It is Christine who has the choice. And choosing to be with me would make her life _complicated_. I am not an ordinary man."

"And she is not an ordinary woman," Madame snapped back. "As much as I would have enjoyed her being my daughter-in-law, she was not for Raoul. He would have spent the rest of his life loving her but being puzzled by her. Whether you are willing to own it, you are responsible for a great deal of her development. You were her major influence from her father's death. In some respects I think you consciously or unconsciously molded her to be your mate—Galatea to your Pygmalion. However, you neglected to take into account her right to choose. And her innate stubbornness."

"Claiming to be the Angel of Music may have given you entrée to the young child but ultimately it encouraged her to perpetuate the role of "Little Lotte" far past its need. Lotte was a foolish creation, dreamy and easily frightened. Raoul's appearance upon the scene encouraged her to maintain that persona instead of allowing her to embrace her maturity, to understand her feelings for you. Well, Little Lotte died in that cellar and you were rather spectacularly introduced to Christine Daaé. _You know she chose you._ It was a series of benighted circumstances that kept her from you. I have no idea what kept you from her. By all rights she should have been married to my son now and beyond your reach but it would seem that a guardian angel intervened into your collective affairs."

The Comtesse felt she had scored a hit but he did not seem to be backing down from his protective stance towards the girl. His eyes had softened but he gave no indication of breaking the impasse between Christine and him. She gave an inaudible sigh realizing she would have to force the issue and break Christine's confidence on a far deeper level than she had anticipated.

"Monsieur, I have not been totally honest with you regarding Christine. I know that you visited Mm. Giry late one night. I know because Christine told me. You and Mm. Giry may have been unseen but were not unheard. Christine was listening in the upstairs hallway the entire time."

The emotion Madame saw on his face was unlike any she had see on him heretofore. For a moment this dark, forbidding man allowed a glimpse of the _boy_ inside him. _If Christine ever saw him thus, surely her heart melted._

As quickly, it was gone. Erik resumed his icy stare. "Madame, why did she not make her presence known?"

The Comtesse made no effort to control her anger. She would not allow Christine to shoulder all of the responsibility.

"Why did you not make your presence known to her? For the same reason. Christine is terrified of hurting you again. This gentle girl is haunted by the notion that she has brought pain to the two men who love her. She hurt you because she did not understand her love for you; she hurt Raoul because now she does understand it."

"This girl, _no_, this woman is one of the bravest individuals I have ever met. She would walk through Hell to save you but would abandon her own soul there if she felt she would bring any further harm to you. You made your sacrifice for her. Why would you expect your lady to respond with any lesser degree?"

Erik sensed the glass shattering again but no longer with the harsh discordant noise of the mirrors in his lair. It had evolved into a chorus of divinely inspired crystal bells. _Were all of those months at St. Martin de Mondaye not just an exercise in eradicating my demons but in building my faith so that I might hope to claim her love?_

The Comtesse gave a silent prayer of thanks as she saw the inner struggle reflected on his face give way to resignation and peace. She was exhausted.

"Madame, I now understand where your son inherits his damnable persistence. As I wish her opera to remain free from distractions, I will seek out Christine at the masquerade ball. I am less likely to garner any attention in such a venue."

"Monsieur that is an excellent idea although I trust you can refrain from wearing red."

Erik shook his head and grimaced at her audacity. He _almost_ felt sorry for de Chagny having a mother with such a sharp tongue. In contrast, Christine's gentle innocence must have been a relief.

"Monsieur, since I fear Christine will never be inclined to live under an opera house despite her feelings for you, you must make accommodation to her in this world. It is time you were gradually reintroduced to society. I understand your concerns and that is why I said gradually. With your surname, I can easily claim you as a de Chagny kinsman. That will afford more protection than you can imagine in Parisian society. Your masked face is the result of a terrible childhood accident that will remain a mystery. I want people to be intently curious about Erik de Carpentier to forgo connecting him to an Opera Ghost. By the way, have you always lived under the Populaire? You strike me as an individual who has seen a bit of the world."

Erik cautiously deliberated on his response. Only Minette Giry and Nadir knew in part what he contemplated revealing. And only he knew everything. "No, Madame, my childhood was unhappy. At the age of six I found myself attracted to a gypsy camp and allowed myself to be taken by them, thinking their exotic life better than enduring the shame and coldness of my parents. They proved to be far crueler, holding me captive for exhibition. Three years later, I was able to escape them with the help of Minette, Mme Giry. She was a ballet brat who took pity on me and offered me shelter in the cellars. I made that my world until her marriage and the birth of Meg and at fifteen made my way out of the cellars to see the world. I had already achieved my full height and with the mask was taken for much older. What I dealt with in that world left me financially independent but nearly destroyed my soul. By age twenty-three, I already had experienced harrowing circumstances that would have undone most men twice my age. I returned to Paris to seek out peace and sanctuary below the opera, exploring my love of music to calm the storm in my soul. Almost immediately, I was enchanted by an achingly beautiful young voice crying and singing for her father and some creature she called the Angel of Music. In my loneliness, I sang back to her and eventually talked to her but always behind the opera house walls. This continued for nine years. I taught her as the Angel of Music and eventually terrorized the Populaire as the Phantom. I didn't even need the 20,000 francs I extorted monthly; I used it as a point of control over the various managers."

Madame was of an age that she had witnessed, including her own, more human suffering than she cared to admit. But she suspected that her knowledge paled in comparison to this man's actual experiences. Setting that aside, she continued briskly.

"Naturally, you will escort me to the Ball as part of our plan. But what of Christine's opera? I cannot imagine your forgoing that performance."

Erik chuckled, "Box five will be available. I know how to occupy it without being seen."

Madame allowed herself a look of astonishment. "You rented box five with no knowledge of Christine's performance, much less her employment? How did you kn…"

Erik smiled, enjoying her discomfiture. She had made him uncomfortable enough today. "Madame, I have come to believe in the power of atonement. A considerable portion of my ill-gotten "salary" has been anonymously turned back into the repair of the opera house. However, I did allow myself the conceit of renting box five for the season with no intent of using it, just to hector those two fools a bit. Obviously, Christine has confounded my intent."

The Comtesse gave in to laughter. "Then, Monsieur, I will join the managers in their box for her performance, and "hector those two fools" as you so aptly named them. I doubt they have recovered from their last interview with Christine and me."

In response to his raised eyebrow, she gave a rollicking account of Christine's reappearance at the Populaire and the deal that was struck with the managers. He was still grinning when he handed her into her carriage, ignoring the patent stare of her coachman and groomsman.

Monsieur, I expect to see you at the de Chagny residence next Monday. It is merely a brisk 25-kilometer ride. Besides, I have a horse I wish to sell you."

"Madame, why would I need another horse?"

"You don't; she does." The Comtesse gave him an impish smile and ordered the carriage home.


	11. Chapter 11

**Too Many Years Fighting Back Tears **

Erik stopped long enough in the parlor to retrieve his parcel and instruct Jean-Louis, in the process of removing the tea tray, to fetch a brandy decanter and glass to the music room. Once inside, he placed the wedding dress on a table and shed his coat and cravat onto a conveniently located chair already piled with books. Dismissing Jean-Louis with a wave, he poured a glass of liquid reflection, all the while staring at the dress. Erik had no intention of getting intoxicated this time of day, merely to wash the taste of the tea, among other things, out of his mouth. Ensconcing himself in the music room seemed convenient, as hopefully he would not be disturbed with any additional intrusions. The solitude allowed him to reflect on Christine at his leisure.

When he finally had responded to the pleas of a distraught child for the Angel of Music to appear, could he have ever imagined the enormity of his decision? In the midst of his daily struggle with his personal demons, that beautiful piping treble calmed him as nothing else. Still, it was more than the music; in time, the child revealed a gentle and understanding nature that poured over his soul like healing balm. Between them, they built a world far away from the degradation of his past and the sorrow of her loss.

A series of disparate events aligned to change the nature of that relationship. The hiring of Carlotta by LeFevre coincided with the change in Christine's voice. Her airy treble had matured into a lilting soprano, driving him to commence her opera training in earnest. But more than her voice had changed; she was no longer a child but a _jeune femme_, and a beautiful one at that. Anger that his sweet young companion was growing up tangled with another emotion that he dared not explore. That was until he could no longer deny it. Christine, the woman, would serve the tortured man as well as his glorious music.

Spurred by his needs, the Opera Ghost engineered her triumphant debut in Hannibal with the hope of making himself so worthy of her favor that she might consider his suit. He would not brook any interference from that insolent boy; Christine was his and he would take her. Instead, _she_ hesitatingly took his hand. From that point, his fabricated guise of authority and control warred with the vulnerability that threatened to overtake him with his every glance at her look of wonderment. That she was so receptive to his advances that first night in the lair was dizzying beyond imagination, emboldening him to allow her a glimpse of the man Erik. The disaster of that meeting spun into choices and events that would conspire against them, leading up to that final night.

_What an elegant figure I no doubt cut, dragging and pulling her down into my lair after Don Juan Triumphant, my unmasked face likely contorted into a rage more hideous than my scars._

Picking up a portfolio case, Erik opened it and spread out his charcoal and crayon sketches of Christine. He had not drawn her image since the lair and composed these from memory upon his return from Minette's. _I wonder if she looks the same._ Not likely if the Comtesse's account was reliable. Erik's gut twisted at the thought of his Angel suffering for his sake as she did. Madame was right; Christine had become the battleground not only in his war against de Chagny but also in his war against the rest of the world. It was in her defiance of his shadows that she showed him the way to declare a truce.

Yes, that darker side which perverted every decent inclination in him. Love became obsession, protection became possession, passion became lust.

_Your chains are still mine, you belong to me._

Better that he had hung an anchor on that chain and dropped her into the deepest ocean before exposing her to the monstrosity inside him.

Walking to the piano, he sat and stared at the composition before him, allowing himself emotions he had repressed for so long. Growing a soul left precious little energy for any other sentiment. Christine and his feelings for her had to be put to the side, never out of sight but not to be touched. Too soon, that conscious choice had become an uneasy habit.

What a delightful irony that the boy's mother overran his defenses to become the instrument of their reconciliation as surely as her son had become the instrument of their separation. His cynical nature initially ascribed it to apparent self-interest but the Comtesse's passion could not be discounted. The woman had shed real tears over the girl's suffering.

Erik took his pencil and made some notations on the score. One day, God willing, he would play it for her.

Like his music, he wondered if he had composed her before he ever knew of her existence. It was as if she was the earliest memory of a melody that had traveled with him all of his life. The music was stronger and weaker at intervals, but it never died. Now he sensed it unfurling its wings, as if on the precipice of soaring. She was singing to him. _God help him, how he loved this woman_.

It was his turn to respond to Christine's song. Time was rewinding itself, allowing for a new beginning. What had the Comtesse said?

_You know she chose you. It was a series of benighted circumstances that kept her from you. I have no idea what kept you from her. _

_No, you wouldn't know what kept me from her but it kept her alive._

Erik smiled wistfully at the memory of Christine giving him the ring. _His betrothed_. But like the mirrors in the lair, he had shattered into a million pieces, each threatening to lacerate her soul into shreds. What had he told Minette, he was _a work in progress_? That work began when he walked out of his prison.

§

_Late evening after the last performance of Don Juan Triumphant_

Nadir returned to his flat in Rue de Rivoli immediately after the aborted performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ on the off chance that his assistance might be needed. Damn Erik, he had saved his life once in Persia and, unless the Frenchman had planned for all exigencies, he might feel obligated to do so again. What was it, that old Chinese proverb which alleged _if you saved a man's life, you were ever responsible for that life_? He supposed the Chinese never counted on a scarred musician becoming mad in his love for a young diva betrothed to another.

Damn the little Daaé, too. Why had not fate whisked her away from the Populaire before she grew into an exceptional beauty certain to appeal to Erik's long-repressed carnal longings? None of the lovelies at Mazenderan ever tempted him; Nadir had thought him some kind of emotional eunuch until the little Daaé flowered. No, like a dog returning to its vomit, Erik would center his desire on a white-faced, corseted, pious little European demoiselle, who rapidly lost her piety with him on that stage. _How ridiculously French of him. Ah, well, cherchez la femme._

The Persian had dozed but a moment in his comfortable chair when he awoke to find Erik standing before him. Alone. Nadir sighed, realizing there was not a lock this magician could not pick so he might as well not have it changed. The Frenchman looked a complete wreck.

"Well, Erik, I cannot say this is a complete surprise. Where is the little Daaé?"

Erik looked at him with barely composed red-rimmed eyes, "I sent her away on the boat with the Vicomte and escaped the lair through a secret passage."

"You let her leave with him after all…" Nadir's astonishment was cut short by Erik's reply.

"It is for the best."

"Erik, the gendarmes are swarming the Populaire like a cloud of locusts. You must leave Paris."

"Daroga, that was my intent but it would seem that my hired conveyance was confiscated by a hysterical subscriber." Erik smirked bitterly at the irony. How could he possibly have expected to escape with Christine under the circumstances?

"No matter," replied the Persian. "I will have my manservant, Darius, arrange for a new hire in the morning. You need rest. By the way, where are we going?"

Erik scowled at him. "Daroga, _we_ are going nowhere. I am leaving for my estate in Bezancourt."

"No, my friend, I am going with you. I saved your life once; you owe me this favor. Darius will handle my affairs here."

The Frenchman was all too cognizant of his debt to the Persian. How like Nadir to play that card when he least wished to be obligated.

"Very well, but you are to leave me in peace. My estate is large enough that we need never cross paths"

Nadir surveyed Erik intently. He had no desire for a vacation in the Normandy countryside, but his instinct warned him that Erik was emotionally at a crossroad that might bode ill for the younger man's continued earthly existence. Upon his own death, the Muslim did not wish to meet Allah with that on his conscience, knowing that he might have prevented something catastrophic.

Glancing down at the Frenchman's clinched left fist, the Persian remarked, "Erik what do you have in your hand?"

Erik, flinching as if awakened from a dream, opened his palm. Even after changing his clothes and gathering his important papers in a satchel, he still had the ring clutched in his hand as if it were a talisman of protection. Nadir, gazing at it wonderingly and remembering that the Phantom had snatched it away at the masquerade, spoke in a hushed tone.

"It is the little Daaé's betrothal ring. You did not return it to her?"

"Yes, but she returned it to me. It is now my betrothal ring."

§

Sitting in a saddle on his resilient black Arabian a good part of the day seemed, to Erik, a reasonable way to avoid the questioning eyes of Nadir. Shamil, his four-legged Persian friend would not plague him so. It was enough that he was plagued by his own questions without adding the weight of another human's. Down in that lair he had asked Christine "Why?" Now he tortured himself with that same question and more.

Why did he insist to Christine that fear can turn to love, only to wring as much fear as possible from her with his actions? Was it that blackness in his soul? Would it not be satisfied until it had made a mockery of every loving connection between them and replaced it with terror and possession? Looking at his face for eternity was nothing in comparison to the harm that looking upon his soul for eternity would have wrought upon her.

Angel that she was, she would not leave him there. He remembered looking at her through tear-dimmed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time, a heavenly creature who with her kisses had risked her soul to pull him out of Hell. At that point, though he had never experience the emotion, he knew he loved her. He loved her to the point that he would sacrifice any hope of his own happiness to ensure hers.

Yet that darkness had shielded him from the burden of a conscience. He had bitten the fruit of the knowledge of evil, as well as of good. The scales had fallen from his eyes, revealing a past that spread before him in its unparalleled hideousness. The lies in his mind told him that any action was justified in order to ensure his survival, starting with the murder of his gypsy slave master. What the lies didn't tell him was that there was a price to pay for that survival, the price being a loneliness, anger, and fear that promised a Hell-born endgame. Payment was due and, like those doomed souls afflicted with St. Vitus' dance, the final reckoning was coming ever closer with each lurch and stagger.

**§**

Nadir's years of poking around the opera house gave him a decided advantage in surreptitiously observing Erik without being blatantly obvious. It didn't matter of course; Erik always had the uncanny ability to sense another's presence in his vicinity, no matter how well they attempted to conceal themselves. It just made the Persian feel better to think so. As it was, Erik seemed content to ignore his existence and made no comment. What little Nadir saw of him was not encouraging. If Erik once prided himself on being the notorious Opera Ghost, he was beginning to resemble one in the flesh. Day after day, the Persian watched the life slowly draining from the Frenchman's eyes. It was more than just leaving the little Daaé. Erik seemed to be genuinely wearied of life, which meant to Nadir that Erik's past had finally caught up with him. The rosy hours at Mazenderan had finally released its poison and were claiming its victim years after the fact. Once more, the Muslim felt a reluctance in confessing his failure to Allah. They had been in Bezancourt four days. Tomorrow morning, he would enter the lion's den and attempt to rescue the Christian.

§

As Erik strode down the stairs for his early morning ride, he sighed at the appearance of the daroga at its foot. Nadir had that look on his face, the one that would not brook any argument. Tempted to sweep past him, he reconsidered. _What did it matter anyway? Nothing could touch him now. Let the man speak and finish it._

"Erik, I will say my peace before leaving for Paris, not that you are in any frame of mind to care" Erik wanted to feel a twinge of conscience but in truth he did not care. Nadir continued.

"You have never told me what happened with the little Daaé that last night at the Populaire. But something occurred which is turning you into death itself. Your time in Persia was a constant battle to stay alive when others would conspire to have you dead. Are you telling me a mere slip of a girl is able to do to the "trap-door lover" what those masters of treachery could not? Did she so rip open your soul that you feel you have no choice but to die from exposure? The great and terrible magician and assassin is undone, not by the most devious minds of the Little Sultana's court, but by a woman of your own European ilk, like the one who spawned you?"

"If she is the only one who could tear those demons out of you then, Allah forgive me, perhaps her white Christian God is the only one that can save you now."

Erik felt the murderous rage bubble inside his chest. Nadir had dared compared Christine to that hateful excuse that was his mother. He wasn't in the lair that night. He had not heard a loving Christine pray to her _God_ for courage to show…

Nadir, stepping back slightly not wishing to appear a coward, but was well aware of Erik's talent for destruction. The Persian's words would have certainly given him the appetite for it. Instead to Nadir's wonder, a flicker of light emerged in Erik's death eyes, growing stronger with each passing second. The Frenchman turned on his heel and raced up the stairs, prompting the Persian to stay rooted in his spot, not daring to leave and miss the implication of this new behavior. A half hour later, Erik reappeared washed, freshly shaven, and clothed in his appropriate gentlemen's apparel. He flung out the door and bolted towards the stables where the groomsman held his impatient horse, mounted and galloped away as if escaping the hounds of hell.


	12. Chapter 12

**Too Long You've Wandered In Winter**

Père Lucien Maillard sighed again at the carelessness of altar boys. No matter how often he admonished them to be attentive in their duties at Mass, they would continually forget to properly hang their vestments in the sacristy or blow out the candles instead of snuffing them. He supposed he couldn't blame them. Once he was a young altar boy who wished to be outside, imaging himself as a knight on the quest for the Holy Grail or pirate on the high seas in search of treasure. It was infinitely preferable to being enshrined in church under the watchful eyes of the other parishioners always eager to report any infraction to his _maman_. Well, he would hang the vestments now and have his housekeeper deal with the wax drippings. That was, of course, after she served his breakfast.

His life had achieved a pleasant blandness since being posted to this small village by the Archbishop of Rouen. In some ways, it echoed his childhood in a large, well-to-do family of the merchant class in Gizors. As the youngest son, his parents expected him to follow a career in the Church, but not before he extracted a compromise of a law degree, which he felt would enhance his ambitions and, unknown to them, expose him to the intellectual and bon vivant life of Paris. When his last remaining sibling had died, he felt the loss keenly. Locating to Bezancourt not only provided a quiet life of reflection but also gave him a new family of brothers, sisters, children, and grandchildren. A part of him would always contemplate what it would have been like to grow old with a loving wife, but such are the choices one makes and it was too late to repine lost opportunities.

Many of his cohorts considered it a fall from grace, from the _vicaire général_ of a prominent archdiocese to a simple country priest. But at age fifty-five, he had made a decision to fall from the ambition which charted his life course and retire to obscurity to reflect on his later years. Cardinal de Bonnechose was reluctant to give up what he considered his right hand man. A priest with a law degree from the _Université de Paris_ and Jesuit training at the seminary of St. Sulpice in Issy was indeed an administrative prize for any archdiocese. That same ambition led him to abandon his seminary training with the Jesuits at the end of his novitiate. The handwriting was on the wall that the Brotherhood with its continual waxing and waning fortunes would never be totally welcome in the political climate following the French revolution. Besides, he and the Archbishop, though still friends, were drifting apart theologically. De Bonnechose's imprudent attack in the French Senate on scientific education at the _Université de Paris_ had secretly offended the still Jesuit-minded Maillard with its rigidity and misinformation. Though several years had past, they never spoke of it. It was time for a change.

The curé was busy with the boys' vestments when the door to the sanctuary opened. _Oh well, one more late breakfast_, he thought, dreading another lecture from his redoubtable housekeeper. Exiting the epistle door by habit, he glanced at the latecomer, scarcely restraining the look of surprise which threatened to blanket his features. The man at the entry was obviously of means with his impeccable and expensive attire, made incongruent by a mask on half his face.

_So this is the mysterious Erik de Carpentier._

Owing to the sale of the glassmakers' estate early last year, gossip had been rampant concerning its strange owner. It was rumored that a masked man would visit for the day to evaluate the renovations and leave just as suddenly. During the winter, he was sighted more frequently as the chateau reached it final stage of completion. An agent arranged to hire suitable locals for positions. In a small village as Bezancourt with its collapsed glassmaking industry, any honest employment was desired and appreciated. It would seem that the gentleman offered extremely generous wages as well. Discreet inquires to his hired parishioners indicated that the gentleman was now in permanent residence with a older Persian houseguest. However, the same parishioners warned the curé that the gentleman seemed disinclined to entertain visitors. He took his meals alone, avoiding contact with his guest as well as his staff. Père Maillard intended to call, wishing to ascertain the man's religious inclinations in light of a Persian companion. It would seem that he was spared a trip.

§

Erik dismounted Shamil, tying him to a hitching post at the parish church. _What in hell was he doing here? Or was it more appropriately what in heaven?_ The Church was on his list of that which had made his life a living hell. Except it was more a sin of omission rather than commission. He had been tortured by heathens and Muslims, who were at least honest in their hatred of him. The Church stood back like St Paul holding the coats of the Jews who stoned St. Stephen and allowed its followers, particularly his mother, to inflict any wound on him they desired. He remembered seeing those Christian faces jeer at the Devil's child and wandered if it occurred to them to confess their cruelty to a priest. All except Minette who took pity on a young boy and gave him sanctuary in the opera house. And Christine.

She was such an oddly devout child, ever praying in the chapel and faithful in attending Sunday Mass at the Madeleine. At one time, it amused him to listen through the chapel walls to the opera priest hearing confessions. The good curé would have been shocked to discover what sins bandied about openly on the stage and in the flys the employees _did not_ confess. Erik heard Christine confess but once, the resulting shame goading him not to indulge his hobby further. Compared to the others, she simply did not have deeds worthy of confession. What did stealing a sip of cassis offered by a _choriste_ or justly scolding an older _coryphee_ for teasing a younger brat have to do with sin?

Just placing his hand on the door sent shivers of fear through him, the once dreaded Phantom. He was about to enter this House of Deception, solely based on his love and trust of a girl not past her teens. She had trusted this God; in her words, she had appropriated the power of this God to save him. What had the daroga said?

_If she is the only one who could tear those demons out of you then, Allah forgive me, perhaps her white Christian God is the only one that can save you now._

_Christine_

He was a man drowning in the weight of his past and saw no other hand available to pull him out of a bottomless sea.

§

Père Maillard saw a familiar expression on the half of the face that was visible to him. Its combination of fear and doubt put him mind of those who had grievous sins to acknowledge at the confessional. On a leap of faith, he approached the man and said.

"My son, are you here for Confession?"

The man nodded his assent.

"We can retire to the confessional or we may talk here in the sanctuary."

"Here will be satisfactory. I committed my sins in the open before your God. It seems appropriate I should confess them openly likewise in His House."

The beauty of the man's voice took the curé aback, so at odds with the notion of sin.

Erik moistened his lips, reaching for a memory of the priestly visits to the opera chapel.

"Bless me _Père_, for I have sinned. I have never been to confession. I have never taken communion. I only have the word of my mother that I was baptized in the Catholic faith."

Some minutes later Père Maillard did something he had never done in the entirety of his priesthood. He walked to the sanctuary doors and locked them.

§

One would suppose that over thirty years in the priesthood would prepare one for all exigencies but not in this situation. Père Maillard felt as if he had received a sharp blow in the stomach. This man's sins were monstrous, deserving of eternal hellfire. But if the man spoke truth, then the Church had committed a grave error in letting one of its baptized slip through the cracks. Spiritually he had not developed beyond the gypsies and Muslims of his deep acquaintance. Where were his parents and their curéin this?

_What was he going to do with this man?_

"My son, I wish a time of prayer. Would you please excuse me?"

Erik watched the curé approach the altar rail and kneel in prayer. He supposed this curé was like others, except that this one had a spark of real intelligence in his hazel eyes that bespoke something other that a simple parish priest. The questions he had asked Erik were penetrating to the point of uncomfortableness.

As Père Maillard knelt in prayer, he felt overcome by the enormity of the burden of this man's soul. It would seem that the Good Lord was not content to let him retire in obscurity. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead so intense was his plea to Heaven. Yet no answer came. The curé experienced a familiar trepidation; at those times when God did not speak to him, it as an indication that He meant for the priest to be led solely by the Holy Spirit. Several times in his life, Père Maillard had learned to dread the exhilaration and fear of that proposition but it always marked a spiritual turning point in his life. The Holy Spirit was always original in its direction, sending the curé into new territory. He was getting too old for this.

"Are you here because you love God or fear Hell?"

Erik was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. "I hardly understand the concept of love, much less that for a God who I felt had abandoned me. As for Hell, I have been there and am not impressed."

Père Maillard choked back a laugh, thankful that a less worldly priest had not held this parish. He felt the old Jesuit wiliness springing to the fore.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because my way is death."

"Then you seek truth."

"What is truth?"

"Truth is the opposite of death as love is the opposite of fear."

_So Christine overpowered fear and death to save me._

The curé, staring at him intently, said, "You are remembering the _jeune femme_. It is remarkable when one so young is a conduit of Grace for another. You honor her gift by presenting yourself to the Church."

"Père, the Church may not consider me a suitable gift."

"It is God's will that you are here though it may seem your own. There are no accidents in this world or the Next. He used her to bring you to this point."

"Your own will nearly killed you and her. She showed you a greater power to sustain your life. If you go back to your old ways, you will die. You know that. The Church offers you what you never had. We will be your family. You will have a new Father who will listen to you. You will have the Queen of Heaven as your Mother, totally unlike your earthly one. She will comfort you in your sorrowful times. And you will have a Brother who will always look after you and mediate for you with the Father. Some of your other siblings may be a trial at times but others will be a blessing."

"Choosing this Way will not guarantee happiness. Many of the Saints died in the throes of human misery. Nevertheless, this Way does offer the peace of knowing that you are not alone in the Holy Spirit and the Body---and the hope of Paradise where all is made right. However, God gave His creation free will; it is your decision."

"Make your choice."

Erik smirked that God's servant would throw his words back at him. That night Christine's face was white with fear at his ultimatum. Then something broke through that allowed her to walk out to him. _Faith?_ _For the salvation of his worthless soul? _

"How can there be Paradise for me? I am not your commonplace sinner; I have blood of many on my hands. What justice can it bring to my victims if there is mercy for the likes of me? For this God to forgive me is to surely offend His Justice."

Maillard cringed at the self-loathing and misery in this man's soul.

"My son, for you to declare yourself unforgivable because you deem your crimes too extensive is to commit personal idolatry. Who are you, a mere sinner, to judge what level of transgression can be acceptably forgiven and what is beyond the Father's reach? Your iniquities are great but pale in comparison to your attempt to usurp the sovereignty of God by declaring what he should and should not find unjust. Listen to God's words to Job:

_And the Lord answering Job out of the whirlwind, said: _

_Gird up thy loins like a man: I will ask thee, and do thou tell me Wilt thou make void my judgment: and condemn me, that thou mayst be justified? And hast thou an arm like God, and canst thou thunder with a voice like him? Clothe thyself with beauty, and set thyself up on high, and be glorious, and put on goodly garments. Scatter the proud in thy indignation, and behold every arrogant man, and humble him. Look on all that are proud, and confound them, and crush the wicked in their place. Hide them in the dust together, and plunge their faces into the pit. Then I will confess that thy right hand is able to save thee._

"So Erik, is your own right hand able to save you or are you willing to cede to a Higher Authority?"

Erik realized none of his cunning magic could approximate this power; in contrast, they seemed mere parlor tricks. Choosing this way seemed akin to walking a tightrope, but with a net in plain sight. His soul had no more trapdoors through which to escape.

"What must I do?"

Père Maillard felt the internal list in his head defining itself.

"My major goal is to prepare you for reception into the Body."

"By the way, my son, do you have any knowledge of the Catholic Church?"

Erik answered, "I considered myself fully knowledgeable on a dozen or so religions, including Catholicism. I can speak, read, and write classical Greek, Hebrew, and Latin so Church Latin might not present any difficulties."

Père Maillard's eyes widened in surprise. Erik's narrative did not indicate any formal education; he was entirely self-taught. If the Jesuit brothers had known about him earlier, they would have reeled him in like a prize fish, even with the mask.

"I will write the Archbishop of Rouen with the particulars, as you indicated you were born in Bolbec. He will, no doubt, have his clerks search for your baptismal record, if it exists, so I will need your full name and date of birth. You will meet him at some point, most assuredly at your confirmation but perhaps sooner. I have known this man many years; he will be aggrieved that one of the Church's lambs was neglected and allowed to stray."

"Second, I have heard your confession and will not tell you your penance all at once, an irregularity but I have my reasons. You present an unusual case so I wish to consult my Archbishop, who may have additional demands. Do not fear; both he and I are under the Seal of Confession and to my knowledge that has never been broken in centuries of existence. Be glad that the Cardinal no longer enjoys his laical position; at one time, he was a district attorney before entering the priesthood. Following tomorrow, you are to meet me every weekday after attending Mass for breakfast and study at the presbytère. My housekeeper is a bit grumpy but has a good heart. You realize the townspeople will stare and gossip about you but that will pass in time as they get used to your appearance around them. Of course, your servants have already spread the word about you but nothing untold. It is amazing when the confessional is used as a gossip post rather than service of the Church. I feel a sermon on this very subject emerging."

"Do you have any questions?"

Erik's head spun at the torrent of words tumbling from the curé mouth. He glanced at the net to make sure it was sturdy.

"No, but I warn you I will be a trying student."

Pere Maillard sighed, "If the Church was able to sway Augustine of Hippo, then you should present no difficulty."

Erik smiled at the reference to that most willful of converts. The priest grinned in agreement and added.

"Come, we must return to the _presbytère_. My housekeeper will be missing me since I did not return for breakfast and it is now time for lunch. She will complain to me about an unexpected guest at the dinner table but will comfort herself in the notion that she can trumpet it about the village that she has personally met the mysterious M. de Carpentier, the new proprietor of the chateau."

§

Josephine Camier was on her best behavior in light of her imposing and _unusual_ luncheon guest. In spite of the mask, which took some adjustment, the gentleman was obviously refined and wealthy from the tone of his elegant voice to the appearance of his attire. She hung on to his every word and gesture. Her _amies intime_ in Bezancourt would want to know every detail.

Luncheon was a rather odd affair for such a sleepy little village. Pere Maillard could have sworn he was back among his Jesuit brothers when talking to Erik. The man's range of knowledge was profound and extensive. Music, architecture, literature, art, languages, mathematics—the list seemed endless. As well educated as Lucian had been, as well connected has he had been with some of the finest ecclesiastical and legal minds in France, he felt himself slightly inadequate to the depth of this man's intellect. The curé was warming to the idea of a worthy chess partner when the depressing realization hit him that he would most likely lose in every instance. Upon finishing their Bordeaux and camembert, the priest suggested.

"Erik, let us return to the church. I wish to pray with you and give you your first act of penance."

As both knelt at the altar rail Lucien spoke.

_St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil; may God rebuke him, we humbly pray and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen._

"I have heard you confession and recognize that you did not act entirely within you will at all times. If one believes that God exists, then believing that his opposition exists does not tax logic. If you felt there was a struggle within you, "that you burned in Hell but secretly yearned for Heaven", then you have the first evidence that a War was being waged over you. Your first act of penance is to pray the prayer of St. Michael the Archangel every morning upon rising for the rest of your life. Dark forces have worked through you much of your life and will always seek to attach themselves to you. You don't just need the Church for salvation; you need it for protection."

Standing as Erik still knelt, Lucien intoned, making the sign of the cross over his head:

_God, the Father of mercies,_

_who through the death and resurrection of His own Son_

_reconciled the world to Himself_

_and poured out the Holy Spirit_

_for the forgiveness of sins,_

_through the ministry of the Church_

_may He grant to you pardon and peace..._

_And I absolve you from your sins,_

_in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. _

"Erik, your sins are forgiven; you may go in peace."

Erik roused as if recovering from a trance, his face a canvas of questions. _His sins were forgiven? It was as easy as that? This could not be right. It was too simple. Like the kisses…_

As if reading his thoughts, Père Maillard added, "It is a simple as that and it is as difficult as that. Your journey to a new life begins in fact today and in earnest at your First Communion. The Church will take back its own, even kicking and screaming, young man." _Kicking and screaming, indeed. The Church will never claim this man with logic. It must do what the Father of Lies would never expect, much less understand. It must woe him with love._

Lucien warm smile gave Erik a sense of connectedness, of family. He would not be alone. _Christine, is this what you meant…_

§

Henri-Marie-Gaston de Bonnechose looked every bit a prince of the Church with his lofty forehead and cheekbones haloed by iron-grey hair, his lean bearing complimented by the red-piped _simar_ of a cardinal. The letter in his hand was further evidence that the Church had not entirely brought under discipline the legalistic training of the former prosecutor or dourness of his Calvinistic upbringing. He simply did not like mystery and was vexed that Lucien had presented him with one. Oh, yes, his clerks had found a baptismal record for an Erik Denis Francois de Carpentier born on 4 November 1838 but not in Bolbec. He was fortunate that one of his more persistent clerks had the foresight to check all the baptismal records of the various _paroisses_ for that name and date, thus winning the Cardinal's admiration and personal attention into the young man's future ecclesiastical ambitions. The clerk had taken the liberty of following the record history and had discovered that this baptized child had died soon after birth. His further research indicated that a married couple named de Carpentier had transferred from a parish near the dead child's place of birth to the one at Bolbec a short time later.

How could two men be born in Normandy on the same day with the same exact name? Was the living Erik de Carpentier an imposter, usurping a dead child's identity? He would delegate the investigation of this strange affair to his _secrétaire général_ _/chancelier_. Nevertheless, meeting M. de Carpentier might prove illuminating. In fact, he would allow Lucien two months for his training and have the curé bring the young man to the cathedral for a private baptism.

§

Lucien laughed at the memory of Erik's words-- _I warn you I will be a trying student_. The younger man was anything, if brutally honest. The curé was again thankful to the Almighty for his Jesuit exposure. Erik questioned Church position from the very beginning as if looking for a reason to bolt. It took every fragment of theological knowledge and Divine guidance to hold this untamed panther of a human in spiritual bay. Their discussion regarding the Eucharist was so very indicative of future tangles.

"_Père, I cannot find any practical rationale for the form of Eucharist as it exists today. It seems like superstitious magic, with the bells, incense, and gymnastics of kneeling, bowing, and standing. Has the Church not evolved beyond its medieval postures? Any Eastern religion could entertain just as well. Is God really impressed by this display of meaningless symbolism?"_

"_Erik, the reasons we keep the symbology are as valid today as they were 1000 years ago. It is an issue of the nature of mankind, not impressing God. God does not need to be impressed by a show at Mass."_

_The look of skepticism in Erik's eyes had challenged Lucien, and then inspired him._

"_You composed opera. Why choose that form of expression over symphonies and concertos?"_

"_Because I wished to incorporate the beauty of the human voice."_

"_Then why not just write vocal pieces. Why put resources into writing a libretto and designing backdrops?"_

"_Because I wish the audience to enjoy both the visual as well as aural aspics of that particular musical form. I can convey my artistic vision with a greater degree of success if they can absorb it through sight and sound."_

"_If you can communicate your artistic vision more successfully through sight and sound, how much more success would you achieve if you had access to your audience's senses of touch, taste, and smell?"_

_Erik had grinned broadly at the priest's clever argument. "So you are implying the sight of the monstrance, the sound of the bells, the feel of the rosary, the taste of the wafer, and the smell of the incense allow us to access God's vision?" _

"_Père, are you certain you are satisfied being a country curé? Do you not hear the siren call of the Jesuits."_

"_And miss these delightful arguments?"_

Lucien wondered what Henri-Marie would make of his returned lamb.

§

Nadir let out a bark of laughter at the contents of Darius' missive. Even Erik might find it amusing, considering the change in his demeanor since the morning of the Persian's challenging accusations. The Frenchman reappeared after the lunch hour with a considerable amount of the emptiness in his eyes replaced with something else. Over the next two weeks, his mood visibly lightened; he no longer secreted himself in his library or galloped Shamil to a lather. The weekday routine remained the same. He would rise early, and gallop towards the village, only to return after lunch and spend the rest of the afternoon in his library. After a few days, he invited the daroga to share the dinner meal with him. They discussed Paris, opera, even events in Persia but never the little Daaé. That subject was now unmentionable. Darius' letter might provide a light-hearted diversion to a once dreary memory.

"Erik, I have interesting news of the Populaire in my letter from Darius." Both were enjoying a last course of local cheese and fruit.

"My dear Daroga, how could you have news of the Populaire when it doesn't exist anymore? I am anything, if thorough, when I take a course of action."

"Well, Erik, in spite your former criminal proclivities, I do not believe you have a future in arson. The Populaire did not burn to the ground but rather escaped catastrophic damage." Nadir was not sure but he thought he saw Erik wince at the word criminal. The man was truly developing a conscience.

"Darius further states that private citizens are investing huge outlays in its repair. Trust those managers to discover a way to feather their personal nests at the expense of the patrons with some of that largesse."

Erik took his knife and viciously slashed his apple into pieces. Nadir was glad the managers were in Paris.

"My friend, I have imposed upon your hospitality and Darius' patience too long. I will leave for Paris as soon as possible."

"Daroga, if I remember events, I did not offer my hospitality. You invited yourself. However, you can render a small courtesy in recompense. I wish for you to deliver a letter to my _avocat_."

"Are you sure you trust this lowly Persian to bear confidential messages to your legal representative?"

"Daroga, hold your tongue. You know by now I trust you with my life. You can also stopping angling for details; I will tell you outright. I am requesting my avocat to issue a bank draft to the managers in the amount of 500,000 francs. My only stipulation is that box five remain empty for their next season."

"Erik, your sense of irony will ever remain a source of amusement for me. Are you not concerned the managers will be tempted to embezzle at least a portion of such a princely sum?"

"My dear friend, I am not concerned on that score; I expect it. Having spent a few late evenings in the offices amusing myself with their clumsy attempts to disguise false outlays, I have no doubt of their venality. The Populaire receives a stipend from the government and, as such, is subject to its accounting practices. My avocat has an inside connection who will ferret out any suspicious bookkeeping activities that the auditors might overlook. Should the need arise, it is my intent that the managers realize any thoughts of pursuing me criminally is not in their best business interests."

Nadir smiled at Erik's ingenuity.

"Ah, a little insurance for one's old age. How wise."

§

Lucien relaxed with the Archbishop over a second glass of wine after Erik has dismissed himself for the evening, thoughtfully sensing the two men wished to talk. The carriage ride to Rouen had been a pleasant spring outing and the hospitality afforded them by archbishop's palace was peerless. If De Bonnechose was surprised by Erik's mask, he showed no evidence of it by his own expression. At their initial meeting, they talked of church music and the magnificent pipe organ at the Cathedral. The Archbishop had taken the liberty of arranging an introduction to the organist before the actual baptismal ceremony, influenced by Lucien's later report which mentioned that Erik occasionally played for Sunday Mass at St. Aubin's, wringing tones out of the small organ that were previously considered impossible.

"So, Lucien, how is our lamb progressing." De Bonnechose had affected this nickname from Lucien rather long initial descriptive letter.

"He is doing well. His mind is razor sharp and as absorbent as a sea sponge. The villagers were shy around him at first but have become used to his presence at Mass, though, of course, he has not received Communion. In fact, on the Sundays in which it is known he will play, there seems to be a significant jump in attendance. My housekeeper has been a great blessing in this endeavor. She fusses about him like a mother hen for not eating enough or taking care to stay warm and intimidates any villager who speaks ill of his deformity. The children are not afraid of him at all but that may be due to the wrappers of Turkish Delight stuffed in his coat pockets to break their Sabbath fast after Mass. Some of the younger ones are very frank in their questions and opinions about his mask but he is very patient with them and gives them another piece of candy."

De Bonnechose smiled at the incongruity of this man's history juxtaposed with scenes of giving children treats. The Church was doing what it was created to do.

"Henri-Marie, the Church has done a yeoman's job of capturing the mind of such an intellectual and it is in the process of thawing his heart. But this man has led a cruel existence and needs more than a simple curé and an unsophisticated village to win his heart and claim his soul for the Kingdom. I ask your permission to contact Abbé Joseph Willekens."

"Ah, your former brothers' fondness for the Premonstratensians is at work in you. I see the Jesuit Bollandists' gratitude to the White Canons saving their library during the suppression in Brussels is still strong a century later."

Maillard chose not to take offence at de Bonnechose's smirking condescension towards his onetime brethren. Erik's spiritual well-being was a more pressing concern.

"He needs a place to grow spiritually that is suited to his particular needs. Where else but at the Abbey of St. Martin de Mondaye? They combine intellectualism with love, community service with the contemplative life, and possess a music tradition second to none with the Sung Divine Office. I warned him you might have further penance for him to complete. What he won't realize is that this is a gift instead."

Cardinal de Bonnechose then realized that an indefinite stay at the Abbey might afford time to solve another dilemma concerning the lamb. The curé of St. Aubin's would be told only the barest facts.

"Lucien, the baptism tomorrow will be conditional. There is an irregularity in this man's baptism, which begs further investigation. I have found out much in two months but most of it is contradictory. My _secrétaire général_ is trying to locate a former priest of this Archdiocese who retired to Belgium and may no longer be alive for an interview. He is also requesting aid from government officials who would be willing to make an exception and open public records in the absence of a close relative's request. Moreover, there may be a relative available at some point in the future though this will be a delicate negotiation, fraught with political ramifications. I regret I can say no more but this situation has the potential explosiveness to shake the foundations of the present government and the Emperor."

Lucien sharply drew in his breath as the last statement. _Erik de Carpentier, who are you?_

§

Père Maillard and Erik stood outside the Cathedral, taking in its gothic magnificence while oblivious to a few stares cast at the curé and his masked associate. Except that a open carriage slowly driving by caught the corner of Lucien's eye, provoking him to thrust Erik in haste up the steps and into the narthex.

Erik, astonished by the speed of the older man, stared at him questioningly.

"Erik, the organist is waiting for you in the organ loft; you may proceed directly. I must attend to another matter immediately." The priest's agitation was palpable.

Returning outside, the curé noted that the carriage had come to a complete halt in front of the Cathedral. He angled his head in disguise, hoping that one of the occupants would not remember him for he most certainly remembered her---Madeleine, Comtesse the Chagny. Once, as _vicaire_-_général_, he had been introduced to one of the most influential families in the Archdiocese. While the family divided most of it time between its Normandy chateau and Paris townhouse, it did on occasion visit the Cathedral and dine with the Archbishop at the palace. Since a variety of priests were entering and leaving through the massive doors, he felt the relative anonymity of his black cassock would allow him closer access to the back of the carriage.

Of greater interest to him was the Comtesse's passenger.

The young woman stepped out of the stopped carriage and remained frozen at the bottom steps, staring up at the entrance as if in a trance.

"Christine, we stopped as you requested but why did you alight."

_So this is Christine Daaé, or is it the Vicomtesse de Chagny?_

He now understood Erik's attraction to her. The _jeunne femme_ was absolutely lovely.

"I wish to light a candle." Lucien was surprised by the low sweetness in her voice, in some ways reflective of Erik's.

"Child, we don't have time. My modiste is expecting us. If you must we will come by later today though I must say I am curious as to why one candle when you normally light two in the chapel."

Lucien watched the younger woman shake her head as if awaking from a dream, her expression taking on a bewildered sadness.

"I don't know why---as you say we can return later in the day."

After the footman assisted the girl back into the carriage, the Comtesse ordered the driver to continue. Lucien gazed at it until it had turned down a street and out of sight, finally allowing his held breath to expel in one choking gasp. He was not sure what he had just witnessed but it felt _divinely_ touched.

§

Lucien sat in the pew, allowing the glory of the organ music to ease the tension out of his body. There would be time later to pray for illumination of the scene he had just witnessed, but for now, he must keep his mind on the baptism. He recognized Erik's touch in the loft, except he was playing with more brio than was his usual. _Was he aware on some level of what had occurred on the steps_?

In any case, the Cathedral organist either must be in the throes of unholy jealousy or humbled to dust. As the two men descended from the loft, the case seemed to be neither. The organist was carrying a raft of sheet music, jiggling in excitement.

"Père Maillard, please help me convince M. de Carpentier to return and perform for the Cathedral recital series. This was a rare treat. Monsieur, please accept this music as a token of the Cathedral's appreciation for that all too brief demonstration."

Erik then noticed that the population of the sanctuary had swelled with priest, deacons, and various clerks drawn by the sound of his playing. Cardinal de Bonneclose walked up to greet them, a slight smile on his normally stern features.

"Shall we return to the narthex," he suggested.

Erik followed him, still aglow with the exhilaration of playing so fine an instrument. He had missed his organ in the lair but it could not compare to the magnificence of this one.

As he, Père Maillard, and the _secrétaire-_ _général_ followed de Bonnechose to the back of the Cathedral, the Archbishop suggested a moment of silent prayer and meditation before performing the rite.

Erik's thoughts were everywhere at once, gradually centering on his intent. He had made a decision to follow this path no matter where it led. _Thank you, my Angel._

"Erik," the Archbishop spoke kindly, "you must remove your mask and face God as you were born."

Sighing, he allowed his trembling fingers to gently peel the mask from his face, handing it to Père Maillard. The others willed their faces to remain impassive. What they saw was more sad than horrifying. Under the area covered by the mask were deep hills and valleys of scar tissue twisted in a demented maze.

Lucien glanced into the nave to gauge the reactions of others but found the Cathedral had been cleared but for them. Henri-Marie must have taken this extraordinary measure of insuring that the service was private.

The Archbishop commenced.

"Erik, what do you ask of the Church of God?"

"Faith."

"What does Faith offer you?"

"Life everlasting."

"If then you desire to enter into life, keep the commandments. 'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart and with thy whole soul and with thy whole mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.'"

The Cardinal breathed on him three times in the form of the Cross.

"Go forth from him unclean spirit, and give place to the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete."

De Bonnechose made the sign of the Cross with his thumb on Erik's forehead and breast, saying:

"Receive the Sign of the Cross both upon your forehead and also upon your heart; take to you the faith of the heavenly precepts; and so order your life as to be, from henceforth, the temple of God."

"Let us pray: Mercifully hear our prayers, we beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy perpetual assistance keep this Thine elect, Erik, signed with the sign of the Lord's cross, so that, preserving this first experience of the greatness of Thy glory, he may deserve, by keeping Thy commandments, to attain to the glory of regeneration. Through Christ our Lord."

"Amen."

Placing his hands on Erik's head, the Archbishop continued.

"Let us pray: Almighty, everlasting God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, look graciously down upon this Thy servant, Erik., whom Thou hast graciously called unto the beginnings of the faith; drive out from him all blindness of heart; break all the toils of Satan wherewith he was held: open unto him, O Lord, the gate of Thy loving kindness, that, being impressed with the sign of Thy wisdom, he may be free from the foulness of all wicked desires, and in the sweet odor of Thy precepts may joyfully serve Thee in Thy Church, and grow in grace from day to day. Through the same Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Through the same Christ our Lord."

"Amen."

The Cardinal took a pinch of blessed salt from a silver bowl held by the _secrétaire-_ _général_ and placed it on the younger man's tongue.

"Erik. Receive the salt of wisdom; let it be to thee a token of mercy unto everlasting life. May it make your way easy to eternal life."

"Amen."

"Peace be with you."

"And with your spirit."

"Let us pray: O God of our fathers, O God the Author of all truth, vouchsafe, we humbly beseech Thee, to look graciously down upon this Thy servant, Erik., and as he tastes this first nutriment of salt, suffer him no longer to hunger for want of heavenly food, to the end that he may be always fervent in spirit, rejoicing in hope, always serving Thy name. Lead him O Lord, we beseech Thee, to the laver of the new regeneration, that, together with Thy faithful, he may deserve to attain the everlasting rewards of Thy promises. Through Christ our Lord."

"Through the same Christ our Lord."

"Amen."

De Bonnechose made the sign of the Cross over Erik three times.

"I exorcise thee, unclean spirit, in the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, that thou goest out and depart from this servant of God, Erik. For He commands Thee, accursed one, Who walked upon the sea, and stretched out His right hand to Peter about to sink. Therefore, accursed devil, acknowledge thy sentence, and give honor to the living and true God: give honor to Jesus Christ His Son, and to the Holy Spirit; and depart from this servant of God, Erik, because God and our Lord Jesus Christ hath vouchsafed to call him to His holy grace and benediction and to the font of Baptism."

The Archbishop again made the sign of the Cross on Erik's forehead.

"And this sign of the holy Cross, which we make upon his forehead, do thou, accursed devil, never dare to violate."

"Through the same Christ our Lord."

"Amen."

Laying hands on Erik's head the Archbishop continued:

"Let us pray: O Holy Lord, Father Almighty, Eternal God, Author of light and truth, I implore Thine everlasting and most just goodness upon this Thy servant Erik., that Thou wouldst vouchsafe to enlighten him with the light of Thy wisdom: cleanse him and sanctify him give unto him true knowledge; that, being made worthy of the grace of Thy Baptism, he may hold firm hope, right counsel and holy doctrine."

"Through Christ our Lord."

"Amen."

As the men passed from the Narthex, the Cardinal laid the end of his stole on Erik, leading him into the Cathedral Proper.

"Erik, enter thou into the temple of God, that thou mayest have part with Christ unto life everlasting."

"Amen."

As the procession walked to the Baptistery, the Cathedral walls reverberated with the sound of Erik's beautiful voice repeating the Credo and the Pater.

"I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord, who was conceived of the Virgin Mary; suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried. He descended into Hell. On the third day, He rose again from the dead. He ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence shall He come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Ghost, the holy Catholic Church; the communion of saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen."

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation: but deliver us from evil. Amen."

Before entering the Baptistery, the de Bonnechose stood with his back to the gates and commanded.

"I exorcise thee, every unclean spirit, in the name of God the Father Almighty, in the name of Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord and Judge, and in the power of the Holy Spirit, that thou be depart from this creature of God Erik, which our Lord hath deigned to call unto His holy temple, that it may be made the temple of the living God, and that the Holy Spirit may dwell therein. Through the same Christ our Lord, who shall come to judge the living and the dead, and the world by fire."

The Cardinal expectorated some spittle on his thumb. Touching Erik's right ear, left ear, and nostrils, he intoned:

"Ephpheta, that is to say, Be opened, for an odour of sweetness. Be thou, devil, begone; for the judgement of God shall draw near."

"Erik, do you renounce Satan?"

"I do renounce him."

"And all of his works?"

"I do renounce him."

"And all his pomps?"

"I do renounce him."

De Bonnchose dipped his thumb in the oil of catechumens and anointed Erik on the heart and between the shoulders in the form of a Cross, promising.

"I anoint you with the oil of salvation in Christ Jesus our Lord, that you may have everlasting life."

"Amen."

The Cardinal handed his red stole to the _secrétaire-général_ and replaced it with a white one proffered. The procession continued to the font where de Bonnechose examined the candidate.

"Erik, do you believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth?"

"I do believe."

"Do you believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord, Who was born and Who suffered?"

"I do believe."

"Do you believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting?"

"I do believe."

Lucien placed his hand on Erik's shoulder as Henri-Marie asked.

"Erik, will you be baptized?"

"I will."

The Archbishop dipped the silver shell into the font and poured water over Erik's head at each mention of the Divine Persons, stating.

"If you are not yet baptized, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

He then dipped his thumb in the sacred Chrism and anointed the top of Erik's head in the sign of the Cross.

"May the Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Who hath regenerated thee by water and the Holy Spirit, and who hath given thee the remission of all thy sins, may He Himself anoint thee with the Chrism of Salvation, in the same Christ Jesus our Lord, unto life eternal."

"Amen."

"Peace be with you."

"And with your spirit."

He took a white linen cloth and placed it on Erik's head.

"Receive this white garment, which mayest thou carry without stain before the judgment seat of our Lord Jesus Christ, that thou mayest have life everlasting. Amen."

Père Maillard gave a lit candle to Cardinal de Bonnechose who in turn handed it to Erik.

"Receive this burning light, and keep thy Baptism so as to be without blame: keep the commandments of God, that when the Lord shall come to the nuptials, thou mayest meet Him together with all the Saints in the heavenly court, and mayest have eternal life and live for ever and ever."

"Erik, go in peace and the Lord be with you. Amen."

"Amen."

§

Lucian felt a complete fool, loitering in the Cathedral that afternoon, but he was compelled to see if Christine would return as she said. Erik behavior had taken a strange turn after the baptism; the normal ironic stoicism was replaced for a time by a manic energy that did not ebb until they had returned to the palace. De Bonnechose seemed a bit rattled by the transformation but quickly regained his composure. Maillard, on the other hand, was terrified that he might have discerned its true origin. _Was their connection that profound?_

He had a clerk search for a marriage record for Mlle. Daae and Vicomte de Changy only to find one did not exist in the archdiocese. That, with the absence of the wedding band on her hand, made it improbable that a marriage had yet taken place. Did he dare tell Erik, who was valiantly struggling to build his life anew, that his beloved was not necessarily lost to him? Or was she? The only prayer of answer would be at the Cathedral.

§

Lucian watched as she walked down the nave to the candles, lit one, and knelt in the pew to pray. The expression on her face was pleasant enough but the look in her eyes was more familiar than he cared to admit in his years in the priesthood. It was the look in a widow's eyes, mourning the loss of a beloved husband. The curé dared sit in the pew across the aisle, adopting a similar devout pose, while surreptitiously glancing at her. The _jeunne femme_ stared at the candle as if expecting it to talk to her. A few minutes later, she curiously smiled to herself and genuflected her departure. Lucian did not stop her. This was in God's hands.


	13. Chapter 13

**Help Me Say Goodbye**

It was really quite underhanded of Lucien, Erik reflected as he absently marked the passing French countryside from his private compartment in the train to Bayeux. He was prepared to give any number of reasons for not going to St. Martin de Mondaye, even under duress of the penance from his curé and archbishop. Except that scheming Jesuit in sheep's clothing would invoke Christine's name in the argument. _What would the jeunne femme hope for you?_ At that point, Erik had no answer, or at least any that he was willing to admit.

So here he was, on another journey at the bidding of Christine's legacy, a torturous route to an uncertain destination. Unquestionably, the quality of his life had improved during his weeks at Bezancourt; he actually was achieving a sense of community, if not quite yet family, within his _paroisse_. Lucien insisted that any remaining awkwardness had become less about his face and more about the fact that he was a wealthy and reclusive bachelor living in a grand chateau while most of the townspeople were families of simple tradesmen and laborers. Well, at one time he had planned to deliver his _chatelaine_ for their inspection, savoring their astonishment that the scarred wretch behind the mask had captured so exquisite a prize, but the Almighty and Christine had derailed that pretension.

_What an arrogant fool he had been. Perhaps, he was yet, but never again about her._

Always, Christine's spirit clung to him as a lake mist, never letting him forget her place in his life. He walked out of that lair with no real notion of the direction of his life, just an overwhelming desire to protect her from what he was. Even so, there was a cost to that protection, her freedom to determine her course. _How was she? What was she doing?_ A part of him did not want to know the answer. All of him wished he could see her again just to reassure himself that she was real and her kisses were real.

§

The carriage ride to Juaye-Mondaye seemed pleasant enough after the unsettling journey from Gisors to Bayeux. Travel among strangers was always a bit of an ordeal for him, preferring as he did to journey in a closed carriage. But the 225-kilometer distance made such a mode of travel impractical and while not oblivious to the stares at least he was learning to accommodate them. The monk, no he must remember they were called Canons, who greeted him at the station seemed not a wit surprised by the mask. Brother Emile, dressed in the traditional Premonstratensian white habit, was warm but not intrusive, pointing out the various aspects of the _Basse-Normandie_ countryside during their ride in an open carriage. The landscape was attractive enough with it hectares of sun-drenched apple trees, but it was a chokingly oppressive element that caught his attention. Bolbec had much same odor in his youthful recollection, a breeze wafting from the Channel that recalled his childhood, and worse, his mother. Best to feign polite attention to Brother Emile and ignore it with its memories of _her_, letting his mind drift to its favorite haunts, beguiled by a snippet of _Ange Adorable_ from _Romeo et Juliette. _Regrettably, a discreet cough drew him back from this pleasant interlude. If a man of God was allowed to indulge in the sin of pride, then the expression on Brother Emile's face gave serious evidence of that condition as he gestured to the prospect before them. Set upon an emerald-hued knoll was an edifice of astounding beauty, its classically domed transept tower dominating the surrounding landscape.

"Welcome to the Abbey of St. Martin de Mondaye. The villagers call the hill on which it is situated the Mountain of Water because of the natural springs that flow from it. We Canons call it _Mons Dei_, the Mountain of God."

§

As he awaited outside the huge stone edifice for the arrival of Brother Emile and M. de Carpentier, Joseph Willekens was again reminded of the deference due to the Archbishop's person. While the Order answered to Rome, they did owe a great deal to Rouen for their continued tranquil existence. Lucien Mallaird, as the former _vicaire général_, had been instrumental in facilitating the way for the Premonstratensians from Belgium to reopen St. Martin de Mondaye in 1858. It would be amiss to appear ungrateful. Besides, this newcomer presented an interesting diversion in that he, too, was of Belgian descent in common with many of the Canons and greatly skilled in music and architecture. Mondaye could always use these gifts. All the same, Maillard had been frank about this man's checkered past, allowing Mondaye, perhaps, its own opportunity to bestow gifts.

Joseph had not known what to expect but he was not expecting this man, with his dark, imposing figure and elegant speech. Well, the Abbey was an odd mix of all social classes so unquestionably this man would find his place. He stepped up to the halted carriage and offered greetings.

"Welcome, M. de Carpentier, to the Abbey of St. Martin de Mondaye. I am Abbé Joseph Willekens. Brother Emile will show you to your lodgings and then direct you to the abbot's house afterwards."

As he alit, Erik looked down at the much shorter man with his sandy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and indeterminate age. He might be anywhere from his early forties to his mid-fifties. But for all his undersized stature, there was an air of leadership, of command about him. Abbé Willekens struck him as the sort who took his responsibilities gravely.

Grabbing the guest's satchel Brother Emile led him to a guest room in the U-shaped main building attached to the Chapel. Erik has been instructed to bring no other clothes but those on his person and the sacred organ music from the Cathedral, if he so desired. His first view of his living quarters was, for a man accustomed to the finest accommodations, a bit lowering. Its spartan nature was evident with its single bed, washstand, and small desk with chair; its only adornment a cross above the bed and the white habit hanging on a hook from the wall, a pair of sturdy shoes beneath. Well, at least the room was spotlessly clean; he supposed it luxurious in comparison to the dormitory of the Canons.

Brother Emile excused himself, explaining, "I will wait outside while you change into the habit. The tunic is donned first, followed by the scapular, cape, and cincture. It is quite comfortable. Your clothes will be freshened and put into storage for the duration of your stay. When you have finished, please come out and I will escort you to the Abbé."

As he finished tying the cincture, Erik smiled at the neatly folded pile of clothing on the austere bedstead. His choice of attire had always been a layer of protection from the outside world and now he was trading it for a very different layer of protection. The linen habit was, as Brother Emile stated, quite comfortable and oddly light on his skin, the tunic's capacious pockets readily holding his rosary, a baptismal gift from Mme. Camier. Almost as an afterthought, he extricated his pocket watch from his vest pocket. Time might have a different meaning here but he did not wish to lose all contact with the secular world. Turning it over in his hand, he unlatched the secret compartment on the back of the case. It had been some time since he had looked at it, his oil miniature of Christine. She gazed at him with soft dark eyes that were uncomfortably knowing, always expecting. Snapping the case shut, he deposited it in the desk drawer and exited the room.

§

"You present an interesting case to the Abbey. The Archbishop did not wish you treated as a guest but neither are you an applicant for a novitiate." Abbé Willekens eyed his visitor speculatively. "As Cardinal de Bonnechose gave me full discretion over your time here, I have developed my own list of obligations. Though you are housed apart from the dormitory, you are expected to follow the rules of the Order for the Canons. That means you are to break bread with them in the refectory, work with them in the menial areas and the parish at large, worship with them in the Chapel, and socialize with them in the calefactory. By the way, you are to be addressed simply as Erik as you are neither a novitiate nor visitor. Our worship schedule consists of sung Divine Offices, Rosary, and the Mass as well as our liturgical obligations as a parish church for the community. The remainder is spent on vocational pursuits and community service. We visit the local infirmary, poorhouse, and prison, teach in the parochial school, and see to the general care and upkeep of the Abbey as our individual talents indicate."

"Père Maillard indicated your interest in music and architecture. Our current organist will be grateful for additional assistance. Our pipe organ, built in 1741 by Claude Parisot and restore five years ago by Menard, has 4 manuals and nearly 2500 pipes. While not as grand as some of the Parisian organs, we think it quite nice. You will find the Canons well trained in the vocal arts as fitting our particular devotion to the Sung Divine Office. Furthermore, we are embarking on an ambitious expansion to add a north and south wing to the Abbey. Brother Raphael is an expert on building materials and construction but he is not trained in architecture. In any case you may explore your options."

Erik was not certain what he expected of life at the Abbey but obviously not for such a secular aspect. He had a preconceived image of a life in prayer and study. Both of Willekens' offers held promise. As to the transactions with the other Canons---his entire life had been a series of limited interactions with one or two at a time at the most. Hundreds lived at the Populaire but his sole contacts were Minette and Christine, and never at the same time. Life at the _paroisse_ had allowed some but he kept most of his dealings to the children. The concept of idle conversation with over 50 Canons was unnerving.

"I would like to explore both if that would be satisfactory, Abbé." Erik rather warmed to the idea of filling his time with his talents. He knew he could do both, and it might ease the discomfort of contact with so many at once.

"Excellent, I will show you the organ and then you will meet with Brother Raphael. There is plenty of time before the Rosary and Vespers."

§

Erik could still feel the vibrations in the air of the last note as he removed his fingers from the manual. This was not the great organ of the Cathedral but it would do very well. Brother Gabriel was please to have a substitute of such high caliber; he missed singing the Offices and relished that opportunity again. The two men agreed to work out a schedule of practice and playing, with Erik, of course, being inserted into the Saturday afternoon recital schedule as soon as he had developed a program.

The chapel was quite beautiful with its wood-carved walls and black and white marble tiled floors. The organ took up a great space on the west wall; its pipes soaring above with an ingeniously carved angel band perched atop the cases.

Abbé Willekens stood below, his arms folded, a slight smile on his face. _This man is certainly destined to raise the standard of our music program to the next level. The only obstacle might be his reaction to Brother Raphael. If he can survive the good brother's blunt assessment of his disfigurement then there is hope for a fruitful outcome._

§

Joseph stopped outside the door to the woodworking shop and motioned Erik inside. "Brother Raphael is expecting you. His personality is, how shall I say it, forthright but no kinder, loving man ever entered the walls of this Abbey. I will leave you two to become acquainted."

Erik opened the door to a huge, high-ceiling, well-lit room, crammed with carpentry equipment and pieces of wood. At the opposite end sat presumably Brother Raphael with his back to the door, seemingly carving on a piece of wood. He held up his hand and continued his work saying, "Please excuse me while I finish this last bit of carving. It is tedious and I have no wish to start over as I have done several times already."

Fidgeting by the entrance, Erik took the opportunity to access the contents of the room and Brother Raphael. What was visible from his back was tall, lanky build covered with the white habit, topped by a head of dark brown curls. Finally satisfied with his work, Brother Raphael turned to face Erik with a welcoming smile.

Erik own expression registered shock and then anger. _What kind of trick was the Abbé playing on him?_ The left side of Brother Raphael's face, from his forehead down to his neck was a lumpy mass of deep red discoloration.

"Ah, I see that Abbé Willekens did not tell you about my face. That was rather sly of him. Well, take a good look. I probably will mind your stares less because I realize you have some idea of what it is like to live on the other side of this." Brother Raphael gestured to his face with a wry grin, his brown eyes sparkling.

It took all of Erik's will to control the even more angry thoughts that begged for expression.

"Is this the Abbé's idea of a jest, to situate us in proximity to each other? This is a House of God, not a circus sideshow!"

"You speak as if you've had ample experience with the latter and not enough with the former. I assure you the Canons no longer notice my face, or if they do, I cannot perceive it. They are much more interested in my soul, and, of course, my ability to make repairs around the Abbey. If anything, that mask you affect will make you stand out more. Why don't you take that silly thing off? I certainly am in no position to pass judgment upon your looks"

Erik felt his pride overtaking his anger. He would not be mocked by this Canon, whose face was more shocking than his own. Snatching off his mask, he defied Brother Raphael's comments with a sneer.

Brother Raphael's grin deepened "Well, I see now that you will be declared the handsome one by my fellow Canons, which means I must work on my social skills to achieve some parity."

The unexpectedness of the quip drew a rumble of laughter from Erik's very center. The Canon was jesting about the tragedy of both their lives and he was unable to stop guffawing.

Raphael allowed him a time to recover and commented in mock sarcasm, "I'm glad one of us is able to find this amusing. By the way, were you born that way? I was."

Erik spent the next hour relating to Brother Raphael the particulars of his life, careful to leave out the more gruesome exploits. The Canon fiddled with his woodwork, occasionally lifting his eyes in reaction to some event in the narrative.

"Erik, I was blessed to have loving parents and siblings. Of course, they were dismayed at my face, but my family chose to weave me tightly into fabric of their life rather than reject me. I was the youngest and many a time my older brothers came to my rescue. As I grew older, I tried wearing a mask for a while but found it a too great a temptation for others to snatch off my face. Besides, my disfigurement extends beyond my face and neck so what was the point. As do you, I understand too well the jeers and cruelty and perhaps that did influence my decision to enter this Order. There was a time I feared I had taken the coward's path but I have found happiness, peace, and purpose here. This is my second family."

Erik frowned at the last sentence. _How different would his life have been if his own parents had lovingly protected him?_

Raphael, reading his expression, nodded in sad agreement. _How awful it would have been to be cast off by one's family._ Breaking the mood, he interjected.

"It is nearly time for the Rosary and Vespers. If you are interested, we can peruse the Abbé's notes for the expansion tomorrow. We can go to the service together or separately; if the former, do not be concerned, the other Canons must observe silence until dinner so they will be on their best behavior."

Erik grinned at Raphael self-deprecatory attempt at humor. His experience of the Canons was that they were much too polite to react openly, even to his unmasked face.

§

Erik found life settling in a structured pattern of prayer, service, music, and design. Any surprise at his face by individual Canons quickly dissolved into camaraderie and common goals. The initial adkwardness in the calefactory was replaced by shared discussions of world events and light-hearted jesting. The Canons were not content to isolate themselves in their world. They were concerned about life beyond the Chapel and seemed grateful that Erik could offer a more worldly perspective.

At first, the service aspect disturbed him. He understood suffering from his own life but had never considered responding to others' misery, considering that his own entitled him to ignore the rest. The algebraic simplicity of this philosophy was quickly shown up for the lie it was. Praying with the infirmed and imprisoned, and feeding the poor offered a geometric explanation of human existence, with each individual a point joined in a line going to infinity or a circle which had no beginning and no end. At some juncture, to these desperate souls, the contents of his hands and heart far outstripped any dread of his face. Yes, he had been wounded but his choice to wallow in the resulting selfishness was indicative of his diseased soul. He needed their aid in his recovery as much as they needed his.

Erik had assumed he would enjoy his music more that the design process but was surprised that it was not the case. Raphael was only a few years older and became like the brother he never had. They would laugh and argue over the drafts, with Raphael gently steering Erik from his grandiosity of idea into someone more realistic for the use of the Abbey. After some weeks, they were able to present to the Abbé a set of plans that incorporated Erik's artistic esthetic with Raphael's journeyman practicality. The Abbé allowed the drawings to be displayed in the calefactory for all of the Canons to enjoy and critique.

For the first time in his life, Erik felt the peace that had always eluded him.

§

Abbé Willekens mentally congratulated himself on the decision to allow events to take their course after introducing Erik to Brother Raphael. Like an army general, he knew his subordinates' abilities and Raphael had risen nobly to the occasion. His letters to de Bonnechose and Maillard indicated that all was going in accordance with their wishes. Now was the time to determine Erik's future.

Erik was surprised at the Abbé's invitation to share a glass of wine after Compline. They had had little conversation beyond the design of the new wings and Erik wondered if he had another project in store. He had already seem need for other improvements on the grounds, such as utilizing the springs for either irrigation or energy purposes as was done in the Middle Ages. Perhaps in the morning he and Raphael could bandy about a few ideas and sketch some designs.

Joseph handed Erik his wine and came swiftly to the point, "My son, you have been here nearly three months. Do you have a plan for your future?"

Erik's mouth went suddenly dry. Taking a sip of the wine gave him a few moments to consider the question.

"I have no plans but to continue here for the time."

"Erik, you are at a point where you aim to make this your future or return to your secular life. Staying here means starting your novitiate in earnest. That is a enormous decision for any man to make, and is not to be entered into unadvisedly. You must make your choice."

Erik smiled inwardly at his "choice". His life had become nothing but a series of choices lately, though he did seem better at them. What did he want? He thought of Raphael and the peace that brother had found at the Abbey. Was that what he wanted? Why would he go back into the world when he could build a graceful existence within these walls?

_Was it because they were walls?_

His cage had imprisoned the Devil's Child. His lair had isolated the tortured man. The Abbey offered sweet peace for the newborn.

_Yet every choice after the cage had been his choice, not one imposed upon him. He had build prisons both outside and inside his mind._

Even the rage that had driven him halfway across the world and back was but a continuation of that same prison. Was real peace only possible for those who were willing to unshackle their soul and risk everything?

_At that, he knew his answer. _

"Abbé, I must go back to the world. If I cannot reconcile myself to some existence there, I will never know true peace, just some counterfeit version achieved with smoke and mirrors of my own invention."

"Erik, are you sure?"

"No, but I must do this anyway."

"Very well. You will wish to write your steward and curé as to your imminent return. I will inform the Archbishop though I doubt he will be much surprised. He is a shrewd judge of character and told me that he thought your stay would be temporary. I think he wishes you to be of some service to the archdiocese in a laical capacity. Just don't let him bully you although I'd like to see him try. I expect you to be in close contact with the Abbey by letter and through occasional visits in regards to the expansion. We will have a bed and habit waiting for you. What will you do when you return to your estate if you don't mind my curiosity?"

"I am for Paris. I have a dear friend from childhood whom I need to visit."

§

Erik wordlessly entered the woodworking shop for a private goodbye to Raphael. Telling him earlier of his decision had been the most painful aspect of the leave-taking experience. He would miss his dear brother so. Raphael, as usual was at his table working on some repair, motioned him to an adjoining seat. Erik became more aware of his resolve to leave incomparing his gentlemen's attire to the white simplicity of Raphael's habit.

Turning to face him, Raphael inwardly signed that Erik was again wearing the mask. No, he would not vex him for his choice. Each man must be guided by his own conscience in such matters and going back out into the world could not have been an easy decision.

Rather, the Canon blurted out self-consciously, "Erik, before you go I would like to know about the _jeunne femme_. I know we have only touched upon her but I would like to know more before you leave us. What is she like?"

Erik was not sure of what sort of goodbye he expected from Raphael but certainly not a question about Christine.

"She is beautiful with the most angelic singing voice you have ever heard."

"I have heard you sing the Divine Office. Coming from you, she must possess an extraordinary talent. But what is she like?"

What is she like? Erik had always thought of Christine as, well, Christine---she was Music. But surely her melody deserved lyrics. _Gentle, caring_… She had always been tenderly nurturing of the younger brats, easing his mind about her being the _mother_ of their children. _Protective_… When de Chagny was at a point of putting a sword through him, she had stayed his hand, but would not allow _him_ return the favor to the Vicomte in the lair. _Brave_… Very few men had come away unscathed after challenging him. She had challenged him at his most dangerous.

Erik hesitated another moment and answered, "Her soul is more beautiful that her face."

Raphael's sigh melted into a dreamy expression. "Oh, I wish I had seen her. You make her sound as if the Almighty had loosened an Angel to walk among us."

He carefully pulled out his watch, opened the back and handed it to Raphael

The Canon's eyes widened at the picture, and looked at the other man searchingly. _How could he bear to live in that world? She was in that world, just out of reach._

"Erik, I am torn between sadness at your departure and awe at your bravery. We know that world out there. I have come to the realization that the fear and hatred directed at me because of my face by others is not a reflection of my soul but of theirs. They fear and hate because there is not enough love in them to smother the lies within them. When you feel their animosity, as you undoubtedly will, remember not to return in kind but pity them and pray for them. They are like lost children who are afraid of the Light or have never been shown the Light. You have it within your power to show them a glimpse of the Divine if you possess the courage."

Erik felt himself shiver at the awesome challenge of Raphael's words. He was no longer just responsible for himself; he must now be responsive to the rest of humanity. _God give me courage…_

"Brother Erik, go in peace to love and serve the Lord." Raphael, tears in his eyes, stood and embraced him.

"Raphael, thanks be to God." Erik then kissed him on his marred left cheek. Arm in arm they exited the room to the awaiting carriage.

§

Brother Raphael stood beside Abbé Willekens as that carriage disappeared from sight. The other Canons had dispersed but the two remained.

Joseph gave him a sideways glance, "Brother Raphael, I sense you wish to unburden yourself. What is in your heart?"

"Abbé, Erik showed me a likeness of the young mademoiselle before parting. She is so beautiful; how can he bear to go back to that world, separated from her?"

"My son, do not be troubled but what I now tell you must remain under the habit. Three days ago, I received a letter from the Archbishop, who has made Erik's interests his interests. Cardinal Bonnechose has close ties to Archdiocese of Paris, even with the recent death of Archbishop Georges Darboy. Credible sources reported to him that Mlle. Christine Daaé never married the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and has, in fact, ended the betrothal."

"But, Abbé …"

"Have faith, my son. Do you know the story of the patron saint of Sweden? It is a fascinating tale. He was a 12th century king who codified Swedish law under gospel principles and used his throne to spread the Word of God. What a fine White Canon he would have made! In Uppsala, anti-Christian Swedish nobles in alliance with a Danish prince beheaded him for his faith, much as befell France's St. Denis."

"Abbé, why are you telling me the story of a Swedish king? We are speaking of Erik de Carpentier."

"Brother Raphael, perhaps in some ways, we are still, though I don't believe Christianity is a beheading offence, even in a secular France."

"The king of whom I speak was named Erik and his queen, the mother of future Swedish monarchs, was named Christina."


	14. Chapter 14

**You Will Understand In Time**

_Afternoon before the second inauguration of the Opera Populaire on December 16, 1871_

When she felt the touch on her shoulder, Christine was hardly prepared for the sneering mask of a face attached to the responsible hand. She had diligently avoided the stage of the Populaire during the weeks of rehearsals for _The Marriage of Figaro_ by managerial fiat as well her own sense of dignity. Carlotta had not taken well to the hiring of her rival, burdening the managers with additional petty demands. Refusing her old dressing room by claiming distressing memories of her beloved Piangi, the older diva had insisted they provide her with larger, more sumptuous quarters in her favorite pink. Christine pleasantly relieved the managers by agreeing to take Carlotta's old dressing room as long as it was redecorated to her specifications. They were more than grateful to avoid any discord between the two divas and acquiesced to both requests.

Christine was please with the results. The subtle green décor suited her; none of Carlotta's garish taste permeated the room. The room was entirely redone with new furnishings except for the mirror; Christine made certain that none of the renovators touched it. Only Madame Giry, Meg, Raoul, and of course, Erik, knew of the mirror's dual purpose and she did not wish it revealed to the world. Its continued existence both comforted her with its memories of her first physical contact with her Angel of Music yet served as a cautionary reminder of the fragile nature of that relationship. What she could not bring herself to do was to open it and walk in; there was still too much pain in that dungeon.

Still, visiting the stage had been an impulsive gesture on Christine's part, just finishing a lesson with her vocal tutor, deciding to view the scenery as she no plans to attend the opening night. This night was for the Populaire, the managers, and Carlotta. Let them find what glory they could in this rising Phoenix.

From her positions in the wings, she saw no evidence of Carlotta's presence. What remained was a milling crowd of chorus members and stagehands, energized by the anticipation of an opening night. Of course, she would not go unnoticed among them even in their preoccupied state; ever since she had walked back into that building, she had become the featured attraction in this inhuman race that was the Populaie. _La fille du Fantôme_—the Phantom's harlot. Or from the more charitable, _la maîtresse du Vicomte_. She had learned to close her ears to the more degrading appellations.

_If they only knew. Neither Erik nor Raoul had ever had that degree of claim to her body except…perhaps on the bridge when she felt exhausted and serene from Erik's melodic lovemaking. _

Over a year ago, a foolish girl thought that the opportunity to sing lead soprano at one of the world's greatest opera houses would bring her heart's desire. Except that she had not really known her heart, nor that fantasy rarely matched reality. Life had since evolved into a series of compromises, of knowing when to react to a slur or to ignore, of knowing who was an honest friend or who was a toady jockeying for position, of constantly looking behind for the vultures at one's back.

Of navigating the treacherous waters infested with admirers.

They already had the Daaé in their gun sights, ready raise their flag over her and claim her as their own personal bounty. After all, she had been the mistress of two men, one a fresh-faced aristocratic boy and the other a scarred musical genius. The possession of overweening egos gave them no choice but to assume that the young diva would surely prefer their attentions to the former. What they were not prepared for was the said diva's reactions to their lavish attentions. Jewelry and trinkets were returned with prettily worded notes of appreciation and regrets, always with some vague reference to a wife, mother, or sister. Flowers and foodstuffs were steered immediately to the dormitories to the delight of the brats.

_The Swedish Ice Princess_

Christine snorted in amusement at her new appellation. Unfortunately, its effect served to embolden some to attempt to break past her aura of reserve, hounding her and driving her further inside herself. If not for Erik's presence in Normandy, she would have only stayed another season to fortify her artistic reputation and then quit to one of the other great houses, perhaps La Scala or Covent Gardens or the Kungliga.

Two separate revelations at Mme. Giry's had changed everything. He had not died in those cellars. He was alive and he never stopped caring about her. She had clung to the promise of her opera, knowing that it had the power to break his resolve and bring him to her. Masquerade would be his protective safety net; she was making sure of that.

_So in the meantime let them gawk at me. I know I am more than a circus sideshow display. I have a soul and a heart that hears the Music. I…_

The wave of realization nearly knocked her to the floor. Fate both gave and took with one hand. The resurrection of her career had allowed her the briefest glimpse of Erik's existence through her own experience. Her resigned sadness could in no way compare to his implacable suffering. She had the luxury of withdrawing into herself while he was plunged into the deepest recesses of Hell.

_What kind of life had he known?_

Rejected from birth up to and including her own denial. Mistreated, scorned, and feared for all of his life.

What once she knew she now felt. And for his sake she wanted never to be freed from it.

§

Carlotta was in no mood for bungling idiocy. Tonight the fortunes of the Populaire rested on her capable shoulders and her _maman_ could not even find a single earring dropped on the stage during rehearsal. _Imbéciles_! She would find it, again proving her ability to handle anything from a lost piece of jewelry to one of the seminal events in the history of Parisian opera. Had she not all her life?

Christine Daaé's presence was the one area she had not been able to control. Those greedy managers' heads were filled with visions of huge profits rather than her comfort. Now, that damn girl was wandering around her stage like the interloper she was. Enough was enough. She would restrain her anger no longer--- hang the managers.

Touching Christine from behind, she hissed silkily, "_La_ _Petite_ _Putain du_ _Fantôme_, you do not belong here; this is my stage for two weeks. Then you will have your opportunity to see if you can take it away from me."

Christine, inwardly cringing in resignation, turned to face her accuser. She had supposed this moment would happen eventually. Carlotta, having exhibited admirable restraint to this point, now bowed to the exorable pressure to vent her spleen. Who better to than _la Petite Putain_?

Selecting her words cautiously, the younger woman responded, "Carlotta, I have no quarrel with you. This should be the greatest night of your career. You will helm the celebrated reopening of the Populaire."

Carlotta spat the words at her. "_Salope_, your very existence justifies my anger. Your _amoureux_ nearly destroyed my career and was responsible for dear Piangi's death. Let's see how well the _Ice Princess_ does without his protection." From her imperious height, she looked down at the girl, her disdain evident in every muscle and sinew in her body.

Christine had been through the struggle of making peace with the past. Carlotta was determined to begin war anew. Neither could afford the bloodbath that would result from the renewal of hostilities. Someone had to raise the white flag for both their sakes.

"Carlotta, I envy you. I was never given the opportunity to control my destiny. Others have controlled it for me. On the other hand, you have always charted your own course, which must give you some sense of pride and peace. It must be a blessing to rest so easy at night."

Carlotta looked sharply at the girl's face. There was no hint of guile there; she was solemn and perfectly serious. Was it conceivable the _jeunne femme_ had been a pawn in a bigger game and was too young and inexperienced to realize the dangers?

Christine was nonplussed by the transformation on the diva's face as it shifted from sneering mockery to the faintest hint of a trembling smile. Carlotta has turned away so quickly; perhaps she had been mistaken. Still, she must offer a last olive branch.

"Carlotta, this is your night. You have it within you to make it the triumph of your career. I will ask St. Cecilia to intercede for you, giving your arias wings."

There was no mistaking the slight hint of thawing in Carlotta's eyes as she glanced back over her shoulder. "_Ma Petite_, that is a kind gesture but tonight I will have no need for St. Cecelia's aid; in fact I intend to win her approval!"

§

_The Cathedral at Rouen on Christmas Eve, 1871_

Cardinal Bonnechose preferred his _secrétaire général_ to handle his correspondence but this particular letter on the matter of Erik de Carpentier required the highest discretion. The old curé in Belgium had been located and deposed. The man should by all rights be defrocked and criminally charged but the Archbishop did not feel inclined to pursue the matter regarding one so close to meeting his Maker. Let the Almighty deal with him.

The poor man's duplicity paled in comparison to the real tragedy that was continuing to unfold. The shocking end of Francois, Baron de Carpentier and the premature death of Denise, his young Baronesse, coupled with the fate of their only son was but the prelude of an ongoing injustice. The curé at Notre Dame de la Valle in Fleury-Sur-Andelle had been most helpful in sifting through old records as well as locating the whereabouts of the remaining de Carpentiers in the area. Perhaps one man alive could illuminate the past and he was due to return to his estate within weeks. Stopping on his way to prepare for Midnight Mass, De Bonnechose handed the sealed envelope to the _secrétaire général_, instructing him to deliver it personally to the addressee's residence immediately after Christmas Day. The letter would be waiting for beneficiary upon his arrival.

§

_The evening of the return engagement of Mlle. Christine Daaé at the Opera Populaire on December 30, 1871_

Normally, she would have waited until a time closer to her entrance to linger in the wings, but Christine knew that Erik must somehow be in box five awaiting the overture. Only a few meters now separated them; her voice would bring him even closer, fusing them together has it had in the past. Absently, she smoothed the blue damask overskirt of her _manteau_ dress, belted over its intricately embroidered stomacher and cream lace-trimmed petticoat, her dark curls swept up under a modest lace fontage headdress. She had taken great pride in designing the ensemble to be true to the era, with minor adjustments for the necessities of a theatrical performance. The costume, the cast selection, the backdrops all bore the imprimatur of Christine Daaé. These were her demands of the managers; there was nothing petty about them

Meg materialized beside her and squeezed her hand in reassurance. There would be no customary ballet tonight; all attention would be upon the singers.

"Christine, everyone in the audience is atwitter. There are no programs. They will not know the opera until the overture begins."

"I know, Meg. Shh, Maestro Reyer is lifting his baton."

Christine allowed the mournful sound of the French horns wash over her as the audience wildly erupted in applause in recognition. _He_ now knew. As the ovation died down, she closed her eyes in the process of transformation. For the next three acts, Christine Daaé would cease to exist. Lucie de Lammermoor would inhabit her body.

§

Erik faded into the shadows of box five, able to view the proceedings but invisible to others. He noticed a few curious glances cast at its direction as if expecting the Opera Ghost to grace them with his presence at the behest of his chosen diva.

As it was, there seemed to be no interested in the box after the opening notes of the overture. _Lucie de Lammermoor_? Why had Christine chosen this…? _And then he knew._ She was singing to him her story as best she could---of the young Scottish girl who exchanged rings in pledge with her true love, Edgar, only to be tricked into marriage to another when told falsely that her lover had deserted her. Of her murderous rage and grief upon the discovery of the lie after her wedding, her subsequent madness, and death.

As the music continued, Erik froze in his astonishment. This was not the Christine of _Hannibal_. She sang as if possessed, her voice soaring to newfound heights of the coloratura. Something had been freed in her soul to allow this; he could not have taken her there as the beast he was. Her ethereal voice floated beyond her physical being, wrapping him and the audience in a mesmerizing spell of unearthly splendor. Vanished were the normal cheers and claps at favorite parts. The entire hall had grown eerily quiet, caught up in the sweetness, pleading, and rage of her singing. The tears raining down his cheeks were testament to her power over him. He had never heard anything like this, and knew that he would never again.

§

It was only at the thunderous ovation that Christine regained any sense of herself. The intense din was able to penetrate to her center and draw her back from that hidden place, allowing her to see the thousands cheering her performance. Looking down at the carpet of flowers at her feet, she gingerly picked her way through them to select a single red rose, cradling it in her arms as if it were a tiny child.

Over an hour later, they were still cheering and she was near to collapse. Stepping back behind the stage tabs, she dropped in one last curtsey and gestured her intent to quit the stage. Mme. Giry grew more concerned as Christine lay motionless behind the closed tabs on the hard wooden floor with no signs of movement. She grasped Meg's arm and scurried to the prone form. Bending down, she spoke agitatedly.

"Christine, what is it? Are you ill?"

"Madame, I cannot stand. My limbs will not support me."

Mme. Giry motion Meg to grasp Christine's other side, lifting her in one motion, while steadying and balancing her trembling form. Meg looked questioningly at her mother. "Meg, we will take her to her dressing room. She needs a doctor's attention." As the women prepared to exit the stage, their path was barred by the imposing stature of Carlotta Giudicelli, followed by the more regal figure of the Comtesse de Changy.

Christine glanced at her with a slightly dazed look. She was not so lost to the world that she had not forgotten La Charlotta's opening night, though unexpectedly dazzling, could not equal the splendor of this night's performance. She simply was not up to an angry outburst. Carlotta narrowed her eyes, tartly offering her opinion.

"_Ma Petite_, we are called to live for our art, not die for it. I trust you have no intention of ever giving a performance like that again."

Christine grimaced ruefully in surprise at her pointed remarks and shook her head no. She would never exceed this night because she would never again have the need.

The Comtesse clucked at the _jeunne femme_ disapprovingly, "Really, Christine, _Lucie de Lammermoor_? Was that choice appropriate or even just? Raoul would never have forced you into marriage"

Christine's dark eyes blazed with a fury that prompted the lady to step back.

"I SANG ONLY FOR HIM"

At this point Mme. Giry briskly took charge. "The girl is in no condition for arguments. We must get her to her dressing room."

Carlotta, who had been gazing idly at the flys during the interchange, came back to attention. "No, Mme. Giry, her dressing room will be overrun with admirers. Here, take the key to mine. No one will think to search for Christine Daaé there. I will have _Maman_ fetch the opera doctor to attend her. There is a door to the side of my wardrobe that leads to a secret passage exiting at the Rue Scribe. The managers balked at first at the extras construction costs but I was finally able to persuade them; Mlle. Daaé's name was a very convenient bargaining chip at times. As to the passageway, I find it expedient when I wish to avoid certain visitors. When she is able, you may take her through it and be assured of not being noticed or disturbed."

Christine whispered, "Thank you..."

"Think nothing of it, _Ma Petite_. Has it occurred to you that opera might not entirely suit your temperament? You really should concentrate on snaring a rich nobleman, bearing him beautiful children, and singing for charitable events. Ah well, I am off. A marquis has been showing me flattering attentions lately. Would you believe that he actually thinks I am witty, which is something poor Piangi would not even consider? Perhaps, I should consider my own advice. A singing career does not last forever, you know." With a theatrical flounce, the diva exited the stage, leaving the other women dumbfounded at her words.

§

The doctor stayed long enough to ensure that Christine was sleeping peacefully from the draught of laudanum. Authoritatively he declared, "Mme Giry, the dose I gave her will have her sleeping for hours, hopefully until lunchtime. You must make sure she has wine, biscuits, and broth in small amounts for the rest of the day. That with the rest should assure her attendance at the Gala. The poor girl is merely suffering from overwrought nerves and a lack of rest. She will make a full recovery."

The Comtesse escorted the doctor to the door as Mme. Giry faced her daughter, "Meg, the dancers are expecting you in the dormitories tonight for the celebration Christine has planned for all of you. You should leave now."

Meg screwed up her face in protest, "_Maman_, I wish to stay with Christine. What if she needs me?"

The Comtesse walked towards the young girl, lightly grabbing her chin between her fingers. "Child, listen to your _maman_. She and I will attend to Christine. Enjoy your night of festivities. Christine would wish that for you, even though she cannot be there. You can do her the favor of making her apologies for her absence and acting as hostess in her stead."

Meg brightened at that thought, hurriedly kissed Christine on the cheek, and bolted out the door.

As both women watched the sleeping diva, the Comtesse offered her opinion. "Were you as anxious for young Meg to leave as I."

Mme Giry look at her with a bemused air. "Yes, there is no predicting _his_ actions."

The older woman laughed in agreement. "Particularly if he has any clue as to her condition or her whereabouts. I have come to believe mightily in his powers of observation."

"Madeleine, it is my understanding that an eavesdropper should expect to hear no good of himself, but I will consider myself flattered by your last remark."

Both women spun around to face the former Opera Ghost.

§

Minette spewed angrily, "Erik, are you trying to frighten us to death with your old tricks…" Her words fell on deaf ears as Erik dropped to his knees by Christine's bedside. Taking off his glove, he lightly touched first her hair, then moving to her face, stroking it with a feather-light touch. Still caressing her, he asked, "What did the doctor say, Minette?"

"She is exhausted and overwrought. The dose of laudanum he gave her will have her sleeping for hours."

Erik sighed at her response. Christine looked so tiny and defenseless, still garbed that hideous nightdress with its theatrical bloodstains, her hand clutching the rose in a death grip. He just wanted to press her body against his and whisper in her ear that he had _heard_ her, that he _understood_.

Madeleine's heart twisted at the scene before her. This man's devotion was evident in his every movement. "Erik, we must get her back to Mme. Giry's residence. I will fetch my footman to carry her…"

"NO, Madeleine, I shall carry her. Have your carriage meet us at the Rue Scribe entrance. Yes, I know about Carlotta's secret passage. She was not particularly guarded on that stage."

Minette blanched in terror. "You overheard us? _Mon Dieu, you were in the flys!_ Erik, are you mad?"

"Mad? Yes, always. But do not confuse madness with stupidity; I don't. Actually, Carlotta may have seen me but she seems disinclined to act upon that knowledge. Perhaps the loss of Piangi was not so great a burden to her as one is led to believe."

Minette fumed her response through clenched teeth, "Hiding in box five was perilous enough, but you took a long chance in visiting the flys and coming to this room. For all our sakes, use the utmost discretion."

Erik grinned wickedly, turning to remind the Comtesse, "Madeleine, the carriage?"

The Comtesse sniffed her own displeasure. "Very well, I shall return shortly. But she cannot go out into the night air in only a shift."

Erik stood and bent over the bed, gently gathering Christine into his arms. Presenting his back and shrugging down to the ballet mistress' height he gestured, "Minette, take my cape and spread it on the bed."

As soon as she had accomplished her task, he tenderly deposited Christine within its silk lining, gathering its folds snuggly around her. The young woman stirred, parting her lips as if to speak but then fell back into a deep sleep.

They waited until the Comtesse returned. Minette appropriated a kerosene lantern and lead the way through the passage, followed by Madeleine and Erik carrying Christine. Once at the carriage door Erik refused to relinquish his cherished burden, determined not to be parted from her. Minette gave the Comtesse her house key explaining, "I realize he probably does not need this but his hands are otherwise occupied. I must check on the dormitories. Have your coachman return to fetch me."

§

Madeleine watched Erik from her position opposite him in the carriage. He was holding Christine in his lap, her curls ruffled against his unmarred cheek. He ran his fingers through them and down the planes of her face. Even in the dim light from the city gas lamps, she could see a ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

"Erik, your lady will recover but will you?"

There was no mistaking the broadness of his smile at her question in the dim carriage.

"Madeleine, twice in my life I have been blessed to have a veritable angel fall from Heaven into my arms. I foolishly dropped her once. I will never again be so careless."

Christine stirred against his cheek, murmuring at the sound of his voice, "_Ängel… av…Musik, ikväll jag gav ud min…själ_." Madeleine started at his raspy intact of breath. The gaslight reflected off the tears now streaming down his face, trickling onto his beloved cheeks. She absently brushed them off, wrapping her arm around his neck while burying her head deeper into his shoulder.

Madeleine waited in silence for him to regain his composure before asking, "Erik is she in discomfort? I could not understand what she was saying." Her eyes widened at the expression on his face, one that she had the rare privilege of seeing once, if only for a fleeting moment. This time he did not bother to restrain his look of boyish joy.

"Madeleine, do not be concern. I have not heard her speak Swedish since she was a child first brought to the dormitories. When she was overwrought, crying for her father, she would slip into it. It was actually the language that I first used to introduce myself as the Angel of Music. I can't imagine what she thought of an Angel speaking Swedish with a French accent" Clasping her tighter, he chuckled, "Christine, my love, you are sadly out of practice."

"Erik, you learned Swedish to converse with a distraught child?" The Comtesse gaped in her astonishment.

"Yes, why not? She needed comforting and it seemed to calm her."

At that moment, Madeleine allowed the last doubts about the righteousness of her actions over the past few months to drain from her conscience.

Softly, she inquired, "Erik, may I ask what she said?"

He looked up at her, never wavering in his soft caresses, his own expression infused with a blissful peace.

She said_ "Angel of Music, tonight I gave you my soul"._

Madeleine dropped her head so that he might not see the shimmering tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

§

Erik gently laid Christine on her narrow bed as Madeleine lit and adjusted the gas jets. Surveying the spartan furnishings accentuated with girlish fripperies gave him a pang of regret. The room was little better than the servant quarters at his estate. His Angel, the missing puzzle piece in his soul, deserved to be swathed in the finest of silk and velvet as she lay sleeping. It was so obvious she was Gustave Daaé's daughter, choosing to spend her earnings on the fine piano downstairs rather than an inanimate pile of sticks and yards of cloth. Music fed her soul, not the external trappings.

Still, there was that implacable facet of his male pride that longed to see her treated as the queen she was to him, for her to be cosseted in silk and surrounded by the finest which would still dim in comparison to her beauty.

As they waited for Mme. Giry, Madeleine studied him carefully. He had pulled up a chair by Christine's bedside, seemingly lost in his thoughts. She recalled a time in the not too distant past when Raoul was in much the same position. Were their feelings for this young woman so different? Raoul loved her with a gentle and protective longing. But Erik? Her opinion went against all of her Catholic upbringing---there was an immortality to this love that defied the rational, as well as the spiritual. Once, in her life she had brush ever so slightly against such a possibility; to have the privilege of witnessing it burst into full bloom for another humbled her to the depths of her soul.

The arrival of Minette in the room broke in on her reverie.

"Erik, Mme. Giry and I must change Christine out of that dreadful nightdress." Erik nodded as if understanding the words but continued riveted in place.

"Erik, I believe that means you must leave." Blushing slightly in apology to the women at his sudden awareness of their meaning, he exited the room to wait in the parlor.

Minette excused him, saying, "This night has difficult for him, also."

The Comtesse nodded her agreement. "Mme. Giry, you will have no disagreement from me on that point. Beneath that ocean of understandable reserve is a man struggling with his emotions for this girl. It has not been easy for him over the past few months."

§

Downstairs, Erik allowed his fingers to trail along the keys of Christine's piano. It was a fine instrument for a square, more suited for a lady's softer touch. His Chickering grand in his music room was a brute that could tolerate his occasionally excessive demands. Perhaps, he should purchase an accompanying square for the green parlor and… _De Carpentier, you fool, you already are feeding a lady's mount and now you are contemplating the purchase of a lady's piano. Not to mention a lady's… Bloody hell, you haven't even spoken a word to the lady in question._

Sitting at the bench, he played a soft and mournful tune to allay his fears.

Upstairs the two women stopped and listened.

"It is one of her favorite composers," Minette offered. They continue their task, settling Christine comfortably under warm layers of bedclothing. Placing the rose in a tall fluted vase on her bedside stand, Madeleine surveyed a job well done. She would send Erik up for a goodbye on her way to a waiting carriage.

Erik entered the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Minette nodded, "Only a few moments, Erik, and you must leave. If she were to waken and see you… She has a performance tonight at the Gala. Madame la Comtesse told me you will speak to her there. I would hate for her nerves to be so overcome by the shock of seeing you in her bedroom that she is unable to attend."

"Minette, may I stay longer. As you said, she will not waken for hours."

The older woman looked upon him with sympathy. _Why not? He would not harm her._

"You must leave before sunrise. I am still uneasy about your presence in Paris."

"Minette, thank you and thank you for your concern."

§

Hours seemed like minutes as he spent the early morning watching the rise and fall of her chest, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing. The darkness was thinning and he knew he must leave.

_Angel of Music, tonight I gave you my soul._

Her words echoed repeatedly in the quiet solitude of her room. He bowed down and whispered in her ear.

"You soul is a beautiful thing, Christine, and I thank you. _The angels wept tonight_."

Bending over her face, he felt the mesmeric draw of her lips, recalling the last time his and hers had touched. And pulled himself back. When he kissed her, it would not be some one-sided exercise on his part. He would not settle for less than the ecstasy he felt at their last kiss, when she overwhelmed his senses with her consuming passion.

Instead, he glanced around the room in leave-taking, his eyes drawn to the top of her dresser. Clearly, the normally fastidious Christine was distracted today; her toiletry items were scattered in total disarray. A few moments later, he quit her room.

§

Christine shielded her eyes from the light that managed to peek through the window curtains. How long had she been asleep? The last thing she remembered was the doctor giving her something to drink. After that, there were only the dreams, dreams in which her Angel was holding her tightly, of Chopin's Prelude in C Minor playing over and over inside her head.

_Clearly, whatever the doctor gave me was quite potent to generate such vividly real fancies._

Turning to her side, she gasped, clutching the bedding to still the trembling in her hands. Her rose from the previous evening stood erect in a vase, tied around it one of her black hair ribbons.


	15. Chapter 15

**Masquerade! Look Around, There's Another Mask Behind You **

Nadir was leisurely sipping his morning glass of hot Caspian tea, mentally admonishing Darius to make less noise in the kitchen. His guest was still abed and he had no wish for the cordiality of his humble lodgings to be disturbed by clanging pots and pans. Thankfully before commencing breakfast chores, Darius had gone abroad to gather the morning newspapers. What the daroga read in the reviews confirmed what his Persian ears had revealed to him the previous night. The little Daaé had Paris swooning at her feet with her heart-stopping performance of _Lucie de Lammermoor_. Except the Nadir did not think she was performing for Paris. That feat confirmed his opinion that the Populaire was indeed much more interesting with the little Daaé in residence. So was Erik's life.

"Daroga, I trust you enjoyed last night's performance." The Persian nearly jumped out of his skin, spilling a few drops of his tea on the carpet. _Damn you, Erik! Will you ever learn not to creep up behind one?_

Darius chose that moment to bring in a steaming cup of strong Turkish coffee for their French guest, inviting Nadir to comment, "I don't know how you can drink that vile concoction without sugar."

Erik chuckled in amusement. "Daroga, in this country men drink coffee and the real men drink the strongest they can lay their hands on. Pardon my rudeness, but for the true Frenchman, tea is a drink fit for women and children only."

"Pardon my rudeness? Becoming quite the gentleman, are we? Speaking of tea and women, I assume that you had a charming _tête-à-tête_ with the little Daaé, judging from your relatively sunny disposition this morning."

Erik allowed himself a sly smile while glancing through the stacks of newspapers. "Yes and no, but it is too complicated to explain before my first cup of coffee."

§

Normally, the Comtesse de Chagny would not stoop to the undignified position of attending a masquerade, especially a publicly held one. Nonetheless, this year's _Bal Masque_ would rival the emotional pyrotechnics of last year's for the handful who would know the real story behind the masks.

As her footman escorted Erik to her carriage for the journey to the Populaire, she looked on approvingly at his choice of apparel—black tailcoat, white vest, shirt, and tie, black cape, and top hat. And of course, the white half mask.

As he settled opposite her in the carriage, she nodded her approval. "Elegant and understated. I approve. There is no reason to draw undue attention to oneself with some outlandish outfit."

"Of what are you speaking, Madeleine? I am in full formal dress. This is outlandish for me."

Madeleine bent forward, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, "Yes, I suppose it is for someone whose previous sartorial choices have been Red Death and Don Juan. I think Christine will approve of this new direction. Theatricality might be overrated, you know. She's lived most of her life in that environment; your appearance could seem a breath of fresh air in comparison."

"By the way, we will be sitting in the owner's box with the managers." Madeleine primly adjusted the skirt of her black lace dress, glancing under her eyelashes for his reaction.

Erik let out a bark of laughter, countering, "Madeleine, what have you told the managers about me?"

"The truth, in a manner of speaking. We had an interesting conversation in their box before last night's performance. Trust me; there will be no talk that connects the Opera Ghost to you."

"Madeleine, what did you say to them?"

She told him.

§

"_M. Firmin, M. Andre, I beg your indulgence for tomorrow night's Gala performance. My husband's kinsman, M. Erik de Carpentier, has agreed to accompany me. It is so rare for him to appear on so public an occasion. You see, he is severely scarred on the right side of his face from a childhood accident and, as a result, wears a mask. He only agreed to escort me because his mask would not invoke any remark due to the concealing nature of tomorrow night's entertainment. _

_Andre sucked in his breath in fear while Firmin stared at her aghast._

_Madeleine called upon her reserves of self-control to continue and not burst out laughing._

"_Yes, gentlemen, I know. The Opera Ghost. I have told Erik the story and he is horrified that someone similarly afflicted would have wrecked so much havoc on so noble an institution. In fact, sirs, may I tell you something in strictest confidence? M. de Carpentier would be mortified at this breach as he is such a private and modest gentleman. _

_The managers leaned close to her as if examining a well-padded credit column._

"_Your generous anonymous donor is Erik de Carpentier. You see he deeply felt the loss of so great an establishment that he was moved to make a vast donation to its resurrection. And as he had so grown to admire Mlle. Daaé, he also wished to ease any guilt she might feel over her part in the whole affair."_

_Madeleine continued, emboldened by the profound look of shock on the managers' faces._

"_You are proper to be confused by the reference to Mlle. Daaé. Let me enlighten you. M. de Carpentier returned from abroad early last year to take up permanent residence in his chateau and to renew acquaintances with his distant cousins in the area. He and my son, the Vicomte de Chagny, developed a close relationship revolving around their mutual interests in carriage racing, horseback riding, sword fighting, and the like. Each was delighted to find a worthy opponent with the foils. As to Mlle. Daaé…"_

"_Upon Mlle. Daaé's arrival at the de Chagny chateau, my son had requested that M. de Carpentier not visit lest her nerves become overwrought with the memories his face might invoke. It was only later, when I told Mlle. Daaé about him that she, indignant that the Vicomte would think her so weak and unkind as to hold Erik's misfortune against him, insisted we visit M. de Carpentier forthwith. In time, after a series of exchanged visits, she grew to appreciate his great wit, intelligence, and outstanding musical abilities in spite of his masked face and its associated memories. He is nothing like the Phantom as Christine and Raoul described that fiend to me. That man was a swaggering braggart and bully who caused you, as managers, no end of discomfort. Besides, the Phantom was scarred on the left side of his face, not the right." _

"_Madame la Comtesse," M. Andre timidly ventured, "I thought the Opera Ghost was scarred on the right side of his face. Did you not also, Firmin?"_

_Inserting herself before M. Firmin could opine, Madame interjected, "Oh, no, my son and Mlle. Daaé were quite firm that it was the left side. Christine noted the irony of it right away and relayed it to me in private soon after her introduction to M. de Carpentier."_

_Firmin rubbed his chin in thought. "Andre, perhaps we were mistaken. Events happened so quickly when Mlle. Daaé unmasked the Phantom…"_

_Andre, eager to push aside bad memories, agreed, "Yes, Firmin, we surely must be mistaken. The Vicomte and Mlle. Daaé had much more opportunity to view him than anyone else."_

"_Gentlemen, then you agree? M. de Carpentier is most eager to hear Mlle. Daaé sing, even to his own personal discomfort. He felt the Bal Masque would afford him this opportunity without upsetting the subscribers and patrons with his masked face. Sadly, I fear this will be his only opportunity to ever hear her sing in public. He is very concerned that the future of Populaire not be jeopardized by ghosts of the past. Still, he is a great admirer of Mlle. Daaé and may wish to continue in his support of the opera house."_

_M. Firmin's eyes lit up at that last statement. "Yes, Madame, we would be delighted to have him join us in the owner's box!"_

The coachman pulled hard on the reins to control the horses. Roars of laughter from the Comtesse's escort inside the carriage had startled them into a gallop.

§

Mm. Firmin and Andre were not exactly sure how the Comtesse de Chagny had wheedled a seat in their box for _Lucie_ and the Gala but they were not about to quibble. It only increased their prestige to be graced with the foremost patroness of the opera house. The Comtesse de Charbourg was sure to notice and increase their invitations to her salon.

Still, the previous evening's conversation has left Firmin rattled, making him anxious to meet this kinsman. Another man with a scarred face. Who would believe it? Still, his monetary contribution had been staggering, with the hinted promise of more. At this point, he didn't care if the man had horns on his head and a pointed tail. Business was business. Madame mentioned his love of music. Perhaps, that knowledge could be used to the managers' advantage.

Erik could not help but be struck by the irony that Madeleine was formally introducing him to the managers, considering the previous nature of relationship between them and the Opera Ghost. The men had been waiting in the Grand Foyer for their arrival, obviously eager to impress their leading patrons.

In her usual brisk manner, Madeleine executed the formalities. "Erik, may I introduce M. Richard Firman and M. Gilles Andre, the owners and managers of the Opera Populaire. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce M. Erik de Carpentier of Bezancourt, Normandy."

Erik parried a slight moue of distaste as he bowed his introduction, speculating on how badly they were ruining his former opera house.

After a few exchanges of generalities, the taller of the managers came to the point. "M. de Carpentier, Madame la Comtesse has told us you are an accomplished musician. Do you compose as well?" Firmin was determined to feel this man out; Andre could not tear his eyes off the mask.

"M. Firmin, yes, I compose mainly for the piano but do also for instrumental groups and orchestras. Occasionally, I write vocal pieces."

"Then, Monsieur, you should try your hand at opera. Had you consider such an endeavor?"

Erik stiffened at the mention of the word opera and willed himself to relax. "Monsieur, you propose an intriguing suggestion. I may give it some consideration in the future."

All three men turned to the Comtesse who seemed to be suffering from a coughing spell. Andre signaled for a footman to bring her a glass of champagne. Upon recovering, she uttered a shade quickly, "Gentlemen, I wish to introduce M. de Carpentier to some other of my acquaintances. We will join you in the owner's box shortly."

§

Christine nearly jumped out of her skin at the thunderous applause that greeted her appearance on the stage. Her stunning performance as Lucie the previous night had not gone unnoticed or unappreciated if the audience's reaction was any indication. Arrayed in her white ball gown she recreated her debut at the Opera Populaire with her rendition of Allisa's aria from _Hannibal_. She did not recognize her own voice, so changed was it from that child that sang a lifetime ago, now infused with a richer tone and perhaps a more bittersweet interpretation. It was true; she had changed from that girl, struggling inwardly between giggling and blushing at the memory of her dress fitting for the aria dress. The seamstress had tut-tutted about the need to let out the seams of the décolleté, assuring her it was perfectly normal occurrence for a maturing young woman while warning her of further changes to be expected during her first _gestation_. Christine wondered if she was having a reaction to previous night's laudanum, to be thinking of motherhood while performing under the eyes of thousands.

Similarly enthusiastic acclaim greeted her as she dropped to the final note of her credenza. She glanced at the owners' box, curtsying sweetly to them, the Comtesse, and to a fourth figure somewhat obscured in the shadows behind the others. The managers beamed with gratitude at her acknowledgement, M. Andre again shouting _magnifica_ and _stupenda_ with gusto for Christine and the good fortune evidently in store for the opera house. Carlotta had never behaved so prettily and with such humility.

_Bravissima!_

Christine smiled broadly at the manager's box, her mind contemplating her next action. She wondered if anyone else, particularly the managers and the Comtesse, had heard Erik, recognizing his clever ability to throw his voice where he desired. If he wished to play this old game, she would invent a new one for him to puzzle. Turning to face box five, she dropped into deep curtsey to the stage floor, her forehead touching the skirt of her dress. Many in the audience were aware of the significance of her actions, roaring in approval with typical Parisian whimsy at her impudence. The managers looked apoplexic.

The Comtesse snorted in appreciation at Christine's gesture, turning to witness the discomfiture written across Erik's stunned countenance. He had spent years spying on the workings of the opera house. Now, one of its inhabitants was paying him back in his own coin. Otherwise, this night would be entertaining enough if only for watching the managers' reaction to Christine's brazen _homage_. She leaned towards them, whispering, "Remember, gentlemen, the O.G. is your friend, now." They stared at her as if she were a leper.

As she rose from her position, Christine threw a dazzling smile at box five, deciding that throwing a kiss might be considered forward. As the curtain closed, she rushed off the stage, buttonholing her favorite _coiffeur_ to attend her in her dressing room. Once in her room and with the aid of the hairdresser, Christine removed her Alissa dress in favor of a dressing gown.

"Therese, quickly help me remove the hair pins. I will be wearing my hair up for the _Bal_." Therese was please to have such an opportunity. The petite mademoiselle normally worn her luxuriant curls tied or pinned in a cascade down her back; Therese would have the honor of making her look like the young woman she was. While the hairdresser pulled and pinned, Christine wiped off the stage makeup and skillfully applied a delicate coating of powder and rouge to her face, cheeks, and lips.

When Therese was satisfied with her endeavors, she vowed to stay and help Christine with her dress. Surely, the young diva would have chosen the most beautiful costume at the masquerade to match the hairdresser's artistry with her curls. Christine nodded her assent and removed the silk dress from her wardrobe.

Therese gasped in astonishment, "Mademoiselle, surely not! The manager will be livid!" "Shush, Therese," Christine replied, "I have the matter well in hand." The hairdresser numbly helped her into the silk faille dress and buttoned the back. Christine placed matching crystal drop earrings in her lobes and allowed Therese to attach her banded crystal tiara among her curls while she slipped on the white kid gloves that nearly reached her elbow. Retrieving the white _papier-mâché_ harlequin mask from her dressing table, she tied it at the back of her head. The mask was designed with a flame pattern at each end that kissed her temples and ears. Placing the final touches on her bow, Christine gazed at her reflection on the dresser mirror with satisfaction. The ensemble was certainly _arresting_. She had patterned it after the dancers' black dresses in _Don Juan Triumphant_ but floor length without the accompanying flounce. It was daringly low-cut with a pointed basque waist, narrow skirt, and bustle. Certainly, Little Lotte would never dream of wearing such a womanly ensemble. The managers would be livid.

Dismissing Therese with warm thanks, she walked to the mirror connected to another world. _Was she really looking at Christine Daaé?_ A part of her expected to see that young girl who had walked through that mirror after _Hannibal_, thereby changing her destiny. What she saw instead was a woman who had endured and survived, who was embarking on the next stage of her life not really knowing how it would look or what it would be. In another time, she would have allowed her soul and mind to battle over the righteousness of her actions, drawing her in deeper or causing her to flee in terror. But her mind and soul had submitted to a higher authority. She no longer needed to rationalize Erik or even surrender to him completely. Her _heart_ had mediated a truce between her mind and soul down in that lair, slyly usurping the authority of both with a kiss. From that point she knew, that in all things with Erik, she would trust her heart.

§

Madame bid farewell to the managers as she extended her hand to Erik's arm for escort to the Grand Foyer. Upon leaving the managers' earshot, she inquired roguishly, "Well, Monsieur?"

Erik answered dryly, with a hint of a smile, "Christine was in excellent voice tonight."

The Comtesse harrumphed under her breath. _Men_. "Come, sir, we will retire to my table in the Grand Foyer balcony. I have invited Christine and the Giry's to join me as soon as they have changed. This should be quite a surprising reunion."

She led him out of the box towards the balcony area, stopping occasionally to introduce him to more of her Parisian acquaintances. Madame was as good as her word; she was daring anyone to look for the Opera Ghost in him. Actually, he blended in well considering the mad variety of black and white costumes and masks. After the ordeal of meeting the managers, the flurry of introductions before and after the Gala gave him more confidence in his anonymity. A few looked at him curiously but allowed it to pass. _Was society this unobservant?_ Often his own survival had depended on his ability to notice the subtleties of people's actions. Everyone here seemed careless.

As a valued patroness, the Comtesse had been afforded a table in a prime location on the balcony. It faced the Grand Foyer stairways and offered an excellent view of the dance floor. Obviously, the managers had taken pains to tender to her the greatest degree of hospitality. Fresh flowers adorned the table and a footman was opening and serving champagne in fluted stems. As the couples below began the first steps of the Grande March, she partook of the champagne, studying Erik for a few moments. He seemed to be lost in thought, his eyes staring at the bubbles in his crystal glass. _Poor boy, she thought. He is about to have his world upturned again. Where is Christine?_ Sweeping the entire Foyer for any sign of her, the Comtesse' scrutiny focused on the top of the left staircase. _What?_

Christine picked up her fan and dance card, serenely exiting the dressing room, making her way down the hallways, to the stage area, and down the short stairway to the opera seats. In a few moments, she would be at the top of the Grand Foyer stairway. There would be no turning back. She would be irrevocably committed. Taking a deep breath Christine walked to the top of the stairs, looking below at the sea of dancers in the dazzlingly lit hall. She scanned the balcony and located the Comtesse… and _Angel_? Suddenly her knees felt near to buckling; it had been so long since she had seen him. _No, she would not weaken now._

M. Andre had been standing with M. Firmin at the bottom of the stairs, greeting guests and watching the dancers when a bright flash caught the corner of his eye, attracting his notice to the top of the left Foyer staircase. With a gasp, he turned and grabbed M. Firmin's elbow and propelled them both up the stairs. Firmin was about to protest this rough treatment when he caught sight of Christine Daaé at the top of the stairs. It was his turn to gasp. _God in Heaven, the minx has the effrontery to wear a red dress with a white mask. What is she thinking?_

In the balcony, Madeleine drew in a sharp breath only to burst out in gales of laughter. "_Mon Dieu_, the only thing missing is a trap door!" Erik jerked his head up at the Comtesse's remark, following her line of vision. _Christine, what the devil?_

"Monsieur, it might be prudent for you to rescue that unnatural girl before she does anything else rash. As it is she will either be hanged by her managers or disappear in a puff of smoke." The Comtesse noticed the two men racing up the stairs towards Christine. The look on their faces was not one of welcoming benevolence.

Erik had frozen in place. Some of the dancers had dropped out of the line to stare at the woman in red. Conversations hushed and began again at a furious buzz. The managers had reached the top of the stairs and were escorting Christine down the steps.

Madeleine grew impatient. "Erik, GO!" She marveled at his ability to move with catlike speed from the balcony, reappearing the bottom of the foyer stairs as if magically transported.

As the managers took either of Christine's arms, Firmin hissed, "Of what were you thinking, Mlle. Daaé?"

"Why, of your publicity in tomorrow's newspapers, of course. Gentlemen, with no Opera Ghost in attendance, someone must pay attention to the niceties."

Firmin still glowered but tacitly had to admit she had a point. Andre was still petrified so she turned to him and patted his hand in reassurance. Christine looked up at the balcony to see the Comtesse grinning at her _but where was Erik_? She looked down and glimpsed his skirting between the dancers, walking towards the foot of the stairs. Closing her eyes momentarily, she silently breathed. _It begins_.

Shaking her arms free from the grasp of the managers, she regally glided to the bottom of the stairs where he awaited her. Holding out her gloved hand to him, she chirped, "It is delightful to see you again, Monsieur de Carpentier. I trust you are well and had a pleasant journey from Normandy." He bowed over it and responded, "Quite, Mademoiselle, although Normandy is not nearly as charming without your gracious presence."

Christine felt quizzical glances aimed at her from the managers and blushed slightly. _Now they will speculate that I was unfaithful to Raoul with both the Phantom in the opera house and mysterious Erik de Carpentier in Normandy. Will I ever recover any shreds of my reputation?_

Firmin narrowed his eyes in contemplation of his younger diva. _Her interaction with the Phantom must have left her a bit touched in the head for her to form an attachment to another scarred man. Oh well, she can have a liaison with a donkey, for all I care, as long as the donkey is as wealthy and generous as this new patron._

Fortunately, the last notes of the Grande March were sounded before it totally collapsed into confusion from her notorious entrance. Maestro Reyer looked relieved as the orchestra struck the introduction to the waltz.

"Mademoiselle, might I have the pleasure of this dance?" Erik held out his arm and she placed her hand on it to be led out to the dance floor. As he grasped her waist, she was thankful that the fashion decree of a corset and multiple layers of underclothing might just prevent him from feeling how hard her heart was pounding the blood through her body. As she looked into his intense gaze, it was if the past with its pain and regrets no longer existed leaving only a sensation that, for this instant of time, she was embracing her whole world in her arms.

Either one refused to break eye contact, making the normal dips and sways of the waltz a bit strained. Christine did notice his eyes dropping to the black satin ribbon tied around her neck, flashing back up at hers with recognition and, perhaps, a bit of amusement.

Christine was finding the silence unbearable. Erik did not seem inclined to speak, leaving her to break the impasse.

"_Why so silent, good monsieur?" _

Christine immediately dropped her eyes to his chest level. _What in Heaven possessed her to say that?_ Several seconds passed with her neck still intact. It was a promising beginning.

Erik's iron grip on her waist halted the progression of their dance steps, prompting Christine to reconsider her earlier judgment. She dared raise her eyes to his, mentally quaking at his reaction. Instead, he threw back his head, roaring with laughter at her _bon mot_, sweeping her back into the rhythm of the waltz.

"Really, Mlle. Daaé, you must tell me where you've hidden Christine?"

Erik's question discomfited her for a moment. Had she so changed that he could no longer recognized the young girl he once knew? Was that young girl what he wanted but what she could no longer give him?

"Erik, she and I have declared an uneasy truce this evening due to the _Bal Masque_. Her deplorable lack of manners regarding masks has earned her a temporary banishment." Christine realized she could easily end up over her head with Erik in a verbal joust but the idea of defanging the past by turning it on its head appealed to her. She would make him laugh for now, for she would certainly make him cry later.

Erik smiled gently at her, less in response to her outrageous remark about masks but that she had used his _prénom_ for the first time. Tonight was nothing as he thought it would be because Christine what not who he thought she would be. He reminded himself that it was naïve of him to think she would remain the same; thank God, he certainly had not. Still, this human rose he held gently in his arms might have, by necessity, developed a few protective thorns.

That she brought up the subject of masks did intrigue him. Christine own mask, while fetching, was to him a source of annoyance, bordering on resentment. He could see the changing emotions in her dark eyes but part of her expression was closed to him. _Does she feel this way about my mask?_ It was a point worth reflection.

The red dress on the other hand…

"Mademoiselle, do you not think that your _toilette_, though extremely fetching in my biased opinion, might arouse less than charitable recollections in some?"

_His biased opinion_? Christine struggled to control the wicked gleam that begged to steal into her eyes and the flush rising in her cheeks. _Erik was flirting with her. He noticed the dress, which means he noticed how low…_In mortified realization Christine frantically willed her face not to turn a deeper shade, or at least for no other exposed skin to redden.

Finally able regain her composure and school her face into a model of total innocence, she replied, "Monsieur, I thought it best to replace the image of the fearsome Opera Ghost with a diva of the most benign nature. And I felt that if the O.G., though undoubtedly dead, wished to make an appearance, he would not have the ghastly manners to upstage said diva's choice of attire."

It was Erik's turn to control his impulse to laugh outright. _She is making sport of the notion that she has obviously concocted a scheme to protect me by drawing attention to her person. Clever girl. Let's see how clever._

"My dear young lady, diva and benign is a contradiction in terms. You might wish to ascertain the managers' opinion on that subject."

Christine smiled, acknowledging his deft retort. Yes, she could be in over her head but this was too amusing to stop.

"I recall the managers being characterized as "those two fools." Viewed in that light, perhaps their opinion is not as legitimate as you might imagine."

Erik did not even bother to suppress his chuckle.

Too soon, the strains of the waltz faded and Erik escorted Christine back to the managers. What he did not expect was the crowd of gentlemen that soon encircled her, begging for a place on her dance card. Erik bristled a bit at their attentions; obviously, the scandalous young diva had aroused much admiration with her boldness. In the past, he would have handled this situation quite differently but that was then and tonight Christine was wearing a black ribbon around her throat.

For Christine the onslaught was not totally unexpected. She glanced at Erik, opening her fan and closing it at her heart, hoping he would understand. With a pleading look, she mouthed, "The waltzes," giving him a tremulous half-smile from the right corner of her mouth. He nodded his comprehension and departed for the balcony.

She quickly entered names, enduring a certain amount of polite grumbling regarding the lack of waltzes. Turning to M. Andre she murmured respectfully, "Monsieur, I sense your earlier actions were a kindness intended for my best interests. As repayment, would you honor me by claiming my hand for the polka?" Andre melted at her graciousness. Firmin was wrong; she was more wayward child than calculating hussy. Puffing out his chest, he led his _principessa bella diva_ to the dance floor.

The Comtesse had been regaling the lately arrived Mme. Giry and Meg with tales of Christine's exploits with the chateau cook when Erik abruptly appeared at their table. Minette offered her greetings, silencing Meg's mouse-like shriek with a well-placed kick to her daughter's shin.

"Good evening, Minette. You are looking well. Good evening to you, also, Meg." Erik wondered if the young girl was frozen in place, afraid to either move or run. He would eventually need to seek rapprochement with her for Minette and Christine's sake.

Minette noted with fascination the relaxed expression on his face. It would seem that her recently forged alliance with the Comtesse was expediting matters between Christine and him.

"Come, Erik," Madame commanded, "I wish to speak to you. We shall walk the perimeter of the balcony so that you may keep an eye on her if you are so inclined. Mme. Giry, would you and young Meg please excuse us."

Erik was so inclined; he did not intend for Christine to be often out of his sight. Madame stopped at a point that afforded an excellent view of the dancers, allowing him to watch her graceful movements.

"I have come to the realization that had Christine ever looked at my son the way she has looked at you tonight, they would be married and still on their honeymoon."

Erik spun his head to her, scowling at the realization that he had not thought of the Vicomte de Chagny all evening and rather disliked the idea of being reminded of him. Certainly, he had no wish to be reminded that Christine had nearly married that boy.

"Remember, sir, _the quality of mercy is not strain'd_. She is in your arms tonight, not my son's. Nevertheless, Christine possesses the gentlest of hearts and she will not rest easy in her soul until she has attempted to reach some accommodation with Raoul. You would be wise to trust her feelings for you and tolerate its eventuality." Madame knew that she had to appeal to both Erik's love for Christine and his reason in order to secure Raoul's future back in his native land. Eventually, she would deal with Raoul. These two men had to find a way to sheathe their swords.

Erik pursed his lips in anger, realizing the truth in Madeleine's words. _Only for you, Christine. He may never again feel the sharp edge of my sword but, if given the opportunity, he will feel the sharp edge of my tongue for the suffering he has caused you since I left you in his care._

"Madeleine, I promise not to kill him." Erik's icy smirk was not encouraging.

"Erik, thank you for that small concession. I will accept it for now but expect more in the future. Agreeing "not to kill him" leaves far too many parameters undefined for my tastes." Her own frigid expression left him in no doubt of her feelings on the subject. "Let us return to the Giry's. Young Meg is positively terrified of you. You might attempt to put her at ease. After all, she is Christine's foster sister."

Minette and Meg were chatting animatedly as the Comtesse and Erik rejoined them, the _jeune femme_ allowing her excitement to overshadow her wariness at Erik's reappearance. A number of eligible young men had approached her table asking permission to sign her dance card. At the conclusion of the current dance, M. le Baron de Castelot-Barbezac would claim her for the final waltz of the set. Noticing Meg's more relaxed and wistful demeanor, he decided to risk direct conversation with her.

"Meg, are you interested in magic?" Erik removed a deck of cards from his inner jacket pocket and cut them in front of her.

§

Christine had begged out of her current dance, claiming the need to greet her patroness and foster mother, while mollifying the young man with the offer of a glass of champagne in her company at their table. What greeted her was the sight of Meg squealing in delight at what seemed to be card tricks being performed by Erik. She slid into the chair to his left, prettily introducing her escort to the party at the table. While chatting with Meg, Erik would occasionally look across as the young man with an icy glare to some effect. At some point the young man begged leave to attend his mother, leaving Christine exasperated at Erik and amused at her escort's timidity. Gently touching his sleeve, she raised her eyebrows behind her mask, roguishly grinning and shaking her head at him, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. Looking down at her, he shrugged his innocence and smiled broadly.

Sipping on her champagne, she relaxed at the simple pleasure of hearing his voice as he explained the card tricks to Meg, occasionally interjecting her own observations. At that, he would turn to her and direct his full attention on her, his eyes becoming the bluest of aquamarines in their intensity. His eye color always revealed his emotional state—icy blue in anger, dark blue in pain and sadness, and this extraordinary crystalline shade when in a state of intense concentration that shuttered out the rest of the world. She had not forgotten any of it. Yet…

She would drop her eyes, ostensibly to examine her fingers, but in reality to give her leave to sort her thoughts in the quicksand of her emotions. Staring down she could imagine all those years in which she never saw the Angel of Music, only hearing his voice. Looking up brought up the jarring reality of a living, breathing _Erik_ whom she had met three times---twice in the lair and once on the bridge during _Don Juan Triumphant_. That Erik had been a maelstrom of emotional intensity, battling that fearful _blackness_ that had threatened to utterly consume all of them that final night. She had learned well to recognize the appearance of that dark side, its reptilian insinuation provoking her fear for the very existence of her soul. This Erik was polite, witty, perhaps a bit guarded, but mercifully cleared of that _distortion_. How was it that her heart beat in such unison with his but everything else about her was struggling for solid footing? She knew this man in so many ways but did not know him in so many others. Surely, her heart would lead her to higher ground.

Erik continued in his amusements for the table, turning his attention to Christine at the sound of her voice. What seemed utterly unreal to him must seem the most commonplace to the rest of the world, a world with which he had little experience. A year ago, he was the _Phantom_, king of all he surveyed in the opera house with the notable exception of his chosen consort and her court favorite. Tonight that queen ruled in his stead, her power gained through a bloodless coupe of his heart. It was enough that she had not banished him, but had graciously invited him share at her royal table, at times even leaning in closer, to look at the cards and make amusing remarks. Just the slight warm he could feel emanating from her body was heady, much less, the accompanying fragrance that always identified _Christine_. His champagne glass was barely touched, not wishing in any way to numb his heightened sensations.

"Erik, the last dance has finished and the waltz will commence momentarily. We should take our places in the set."

It still shocked him to hear his name drop from her lips so casually. For years, he had been her Angel of Music, abandoning his past around her, yet she was usurping this aspect of his history, her voice transforming it into an object of seductive beauty which vibrated through his core.

§

By this point in the evening, the waltz had become an exercise in the control of Erik's frustration. Christine was equally witty and attentive, perhaps too much so. He desperately needed to speak to her away from the others but how? Dancing and sitting with a table of acquaintances would not answer. In a previous life, he would have forced the issue but… _No, let his lady choose the time_. Still, it was doing nothing for his temper, which still took some effort to control. Fortunately, the first long break of the evening was about to commence, presenting opportunity.

Christine was well aware of the slight frisson of dissatisfaction in Erik's eyes as well as his struggle to master it. She chose not to take offense; impatience was bred in his nature but did not define him any more than her stubbornness defined her. It was obvious he wanted time alone with her, as she with him.

As they returned to the table, Christine turned to him with a request. "Erik, I wish to speak to the Comtesse in private." Turning to Madeleine, she pled, "Madame, might we talk in one of the side rooms? There is an issue I wish to discuss with you."

The Comtesse had been anticipating this conversation all evening. Her appearance with Erik in tow would need considerable explaining. "Yes, Christine we must talk." As they walked down the stairway, she continued, "Nevertheless, for Erik's sake we should make it as brief as possible. I am sure he wishes at some point to engage you in private conversation himself."

Flushing slightly at Madeleine's inference, Christine replied, "Yes, Madame, I intend for our conversation to be brief."

Assuring herself the obscure room on the floor level was empty, Christine turned the latch on the door and faced the Comtesse de Chagny. "Madame, I do not know how you arranged this and at this point I am not certain I care. Thank you."

Madeleine, expecting a diatribe on the subject of interference, was nonplussed at Christine's reaction. "Girl, are you not in the least bit annoyed at my meddling in your and Erik's affairs?"

Christine gave her a rueful grin. "I probably would if I was French but I am Swedish and we are of a more practical bent. I can only imagine Erik's initial reaction because he _is_ French. One day you or he must tell me but not now."

The Comtesse snorted in appreciation at Christine's response. _A pragmatic Swedish demoiselle and a temperamental Frenchman; they might just balance each other._

"Speaking of reactions, Christine, what did you hope to accomplish by that costume? If it was fashioned to attract attention and Erik's admiration, I daresay you have succeeded."

Christine smiled a bit only to abruptly become serious. "Madame, we can't change the past. We can only replace it."

"I am stopping by my dressing room on the way to the rooftop of the Populaire. Please indulge me by waiting a period before returning to the table. Erik will ask you were I am. Tell him. He will understand."

Madeleine shuddered her disbelief, "Child, are you daft? To visit the rooftop in the dead of winter? What kind of deep game are you playing?"

But her words found no response from the back of a closing door.

§

Madeleine cooled her heels for twenty minutes before leaving the room. _There, that should give that demented girl enough time to reach the rooftop for God knows what purpose! Poor Erik, what will he think of his lady running away like that?_

As she approached the table alone, she was prepared for the frosty look in his eyes at the absence of Christine by her side. Throwing up her hands in defense she pleaded, "Boy, don't look at me in that accusatory manner. She asked me to relay to you that she would be on the rooftop, blathering something about replacing history…"

His departure exceeded Christine's in its rudeness and speed, leaving the Comtesse to contemplate the sad state of manners exhibited by the young in these modern times.


	16. Chapter 16

**Now You Cannot Ever Be Free**

The crunch of her dancing slippers on the light dusting of snow atop the roof of the Populaire was the only evidence repudiating the total absence of the human race this last night of the year, the temperatures hovering near freezing having driven revelers indoors to the warmth and comfort of food and frivolities. Christine gathered her warm red velvet cloak tighter around her, its hood protecting her curls from the occasional flurry, its edges gently swaying in a delicate breeze that stung at her unmasked face. Still, it was a welcome contrast to last year, with its freakishly early snowfall and bitter winter so reflective of the events of her life.

In a fit of childish apprehension, she stuck out her tongue to capture one of the flakes, giggling nervously at her absurdity. Perhaps this would be her last chance to be a child; adult work was at hand. She walked over to the statue of Pegasus, lightly running the gloved fingertips of her left hand along its base. _He had been here that night._ Her right hand held a red rose tied with a black ribbon. After her costume change, the stagehands had been beleaguered with the unenviable task of delivering baskets of flowers to her dressing room, reduced to propping them in every available crevice. But the single rose had lain on her dresser, as in the past. It would meet a different fate tonight.

§

Erik soberly latched the rooftop door behind him, his mind struggling to piece together the reason she was up here. Or was she? There were certainly a woman's footprints in the snow but where was Christine? Perhaps she had lost her courage, that the past had come back like a phantom to snatch her away from him. Perhaps he had hoped for too much…

Lost in his misery, he almost didn't hear the muffled sound of her graceful tread as she emerged from behind the Pegasus, her eyes indecipherable, less from the muted reflection of the gas lights both inside and outside the Populaire than from some choice of her soul. She planted herself some five meters from him, her person as coldly unmoving as the statuary around her.

"Erik, I, too, know what is like to be an opera ghost."

He stepped forward to close the distance between them but the chilling effect of her words held him back. _What was she talking about?_

"My Angel, I know you were here when Raoul and I fled to this place." Christine continued, her own expression inscrutable while she observed a pageant of emotions crossing his—confusion, amazement, _denial_.

_Of course, she knew_, he swiftly realized. "Christine, what I said on the bridge and in the lair—you must have inferred from my words that I was here that night." _Holy Father, guard my hard-fought sanity. It is the only rational explanation._

"Oh, yes, you threw my careless words back at me down there as you held Raoul's life by a noose. _Order your fine horses._ But ghosts see and hear far better than they remember." Christine took a step towards him, exposing the rose in her hand.

"Erik, I swear on my father's grave that this rose will not meet a similar fate to the one that night nor will I deliberately give you reason to curse me." She jerked her head over her shoulder towards the _Victoire Alles _with resigned disdain.

His knees threatened to buckle from underneath him. _How could she know this? What is this talk of ghosts? He had been a living ghost, and rather successful at that, but only the truly dead could… Mother of God, Madeleine said they nearly lost her. Had they?_

Looking down at the rose as if begging permission from it to continue, she mused,

"Erik, do you remember when I was young I would ask to see you? Did you ever wonder why I stopped and why I asked you once more after Gala Night? Eventually I assumed that I was unworthy to see a real Angel when but a child and when I grew older I assumed I was too unworthy to meet my Master, my Teacher. My debut gave me the courage, knowing I had pleased you and that you might at last find me deserving."

Erik's heart constricted at her admission. How could she have so misunderstood all those years? It was never she; it was _he_. "Oh, Christine, surely you realize now I was terrified to present myself to you. My Angel, you were never unworthy; it was I. I thought if I could bring you to greatness then you could eventually see past the mask to favor me…," his words trailing off as he dejectedly gestured to the right side of his face.

"Then we both were fools. Likewise, you were foolish to mesmerize me. I would have come willingly with you, anxious as I was by the prospect. Do you think I would have fled? I had waited for years." She stepped forward measuredly, a flash of anger in her eyes replacing the disturbing blankness.

Erik bowed his head down, his beautiful voice tightening in shame, "My Angel, forgive me. I felt I had but one chance and was too cowardly to place the decision in your hands."

"Perhaps in some respects you were correct not to trust me entirely. Your mesmerism broke down my defenses. I felt all-powerful and unconstrained, drowning in the glory of your music. I saw the wedding dress; it did not fill me with alarm. I was overcome with the certitude that I would be allowed to spend my life with you making the most glorious music, experiencing Heaven while still a mortal. When I awoke, I struggled to piece together what had happened. Touching your face stirred memories of the dress and its promise. And that I had never kissed my intended. He thwarted my earlier attempts but I am stubborn and would not be dissuaded this time. Still, he was wearing a mask and I did not wish anything to interfere as I held his face to kiss his lips."

"My last thought before you pushed me to the ground was _my angel is scarred beneath the mask. No matter_."

Erik unsuccessfully battled to contain a ragged sob. What he had seen as betrayal had been an instinctively loving gesture on her part. The mesmerism had worked too well in encouraging her to abandon her natural reserve. His curse-filled ranting had broken the moment, opening her eyes to the consequences of her actions.

"Christine, if only I could reverse time and take it back. For my whole life, I have associated a touch to my mask as a prelude to harm. From that, I degenerated into grieving madness, believing that I had lost you when you saw my repulsiveness, desperate to salvage the situation in any way I could. That I may have harmed you physically in my rage will haunt me the rest of my days."

Taking a step closer, she continued, her facing softening with pity at his anguish, "You were insistent that fear could turn to love but had you considered that love might turn to fear?" At this point Erik began visibly shaking. Her words struck a blow to his middle.

"Erik, the harm you caused me was not physical, though that might have been more merciful. You actions planted a seed of doubt that was nourished by my own fears and Raoul's encouragement. You, who had never shown any anger towards me, now made me the object of your unbending wrath. Ultimately, your face became the symbol for all my despair at your actions; I ascribed to it a hideousness that it never deserved."

"Worse than the anger was the bone-chilling coldness you exhibited while preparing me for _Il Muto_. You refused to reveal your physical presence again, acting as if nothing untoward had ever occurred. My Angel of Music had taken flight that night. What remained was the _monster_, whose rage I feared would turn on me again. But it didn't turn on me; it turned on Carlotta and Joseph Buquet. They stood between you and me, as did Raoul. If it was any way in my power, I would not allow my childhood friend to risk harm."

"So my fear of you and for him led all of us to this rooftop. My Angel had been replaced by a monster, shattering my hopes. Raoul offered a safe haven that I took it in my weakness, convincing myself of the righteousness of my actions. He took the three months you gave him to insinuate himself into my emotions, though I could not shake the years I had with my Angel. Masquerade and the visit to my father's grave gave proof to the bond we still shared. Nevertheless, every time I tried to approach you, I only ended up angering you more and frightening myself in the process. Raoul used your actions to beat down my resolve, ever reminding me of the danger of your continued existence to our future. My mind heard him and agreed, but Erik, my soul was wretched that I would be delivering the kiss of betrayal at the insistence of the Pharisees."

"Once, I heard you on the stage I knew I could not follow through. Not because of fear of the monster. Not because of fear of harming the Angel of Music. What I heard in your voice was neither. I heard the man—the one you said I would learn to see. I agreed to be with him, the man who held me so tenderly on the bridge, singing sweet words of devotion. For me, time could have halted for eternity but unbending reality intruded. I opened my eyes to the stark reality that the guns pointed at the monster would kill the man. And the man was too awashed in his newborn emotions to realize the danger." Christine inhaled shakily, moving ever closer.

"Erik, afterwards in the lair, you asked why. I could not tell you because I was convinced that monster would kill me if you knew my reason."

"I tore off your mask to save you. The man was too emotionally childlike to comprehend the danger. I had to risk unleashing the monster to save you both; he had the means to accomplish that—the great and terrifying Phantom of the Opera. But taking that course of action meant giving up control and risking my own life. I was prepared to do that if necessary to save the man. What I had not anticipated was Raoul finding us. As I stated, I was prepared to risk my life but not his."

"I was never so terrified in all of my life, a fear hidden behind a burning anger at you for your lies and manipulation and more so at myself for falling prey to them. But I also heard your words of sorrow and hopelessness that slipped out amid your rage. Yes, you deceived me but I finally understood your level of desperation."

Erik's face contorted with a paroxysm of regret, his eyes brimming with tears, "Christine, my life was unraveling at that moment. You were my last hope for any bearable human existence yet you were slipping away from me. God forgive me, I was willing to do anything to keep you, even if my _darkness_ annihilated you in the process."

As he blinked away the tears, he became aware that the cool winter's breeze was no longer swirling across him. The closeness of her body was blocking it. She held out her hand. White glove met white glove as each could have sworn they felt the warmth of the other's skin through the fine leather.

"Erik, I felt your raging despair wash over me and took matters into my own hands. If God would give me just enough courage then I could overcome my fear of the monster to reach the man. But God played a trick on us both, giving me more than I asked. Fear completed its transformation back to love and that love cast out the fear in you, as well as me. For you see, my Angel, you have been afraid for a very long time. The monster protected you but you needed him no longer because now my love would be there to protect you."

Christine touched her forehead to his unmarred cheek, feeling his tears flow down over her eyes and onto her own cheeks.

"When you told us to go, I was stunned first with dismay but then understanding. Love had finally allowed you to find unselfishness and mercy. Raoul was injured and the mob was out of control, drawing nearer. I ran to attend to him, insisting he get in the boat for his own safety, praying that you were attending to your own. When I heard the tinkling of the music box, my blood froze in my veins. Hearing it meant that you had not left and were still in danger. It was worse than I had imagined. You were sitting there, totally lost and defenseless, overwhelmed by what you had learned about yourself and me. There was no time; I had to spur you onward to safety. I took off the ring, pressing it into your palm, hoping with a kind of childlike superstitiousness, you would draw strength and meaning from it and my actions. When I saw your pained reaction, with its realization that I was assigning you the heroic task of saving yourself with your own hand, I nearly broke my resolve and stayed. Except that Raoul remained in danger and of the three of us, he was the most blameless, never understanding what he had stumbled into because I had not truly understood it until I walked into the lake."

"I would have waited for you for eternity but…" Christine broke down into her own tears at the memory of those months when she thought him dead.

Erik cupped her face in his hands, staring with his own wretchedness at the anguish in her dark eyes. "Shhh, Christine, that is past. Madeleine told me of those events. There was nothing just about it but your suffering gave me time to heal the hole in my soul. _What men meant for evil, God meant for good_."

He was so close to her, she could smell his distinctive scent, calming her troubled spirit. What was it… citrus, sandalwood, perhaps a hint of smoky vetiver? At last able to swallow the misery lodged in her throat, she fiercely whispered, "My Angel, you were prophetic but not in the way you would ever imagine. Now I cannot ever be free, not because of seeing your face, _but because I love you_. And now you cannot ever be free _because you have removed the mask I wear_."

Even in the dimmed surroundings, Christine saw his eyes lighten as he stared at her in wonder and awe. At the feel of his lips on the top of her forehead, she repressed a shiver of delight at their touch. This moment was too perfect; she would not allow any misunderstandings to tarnish its beauty. Closing her eyes, she savored the feathery touches of his mouth as he brushed it passed her brow, lids, and the tip of her nose, still holding her face caressingly between his gloved hands. _If this is a dream, then I wish never to wake_, she thought, feeling the warmth of his breath on her mouth. Abruptly her lips were covered with his, at first warmed by their graze in the chilly night air, then instinctively parting to his insisting exploration. _No, this is real._

Erik tasted everything her sweetness offered, gorging as a man presented with a banquet after an eternity of fasting. _She loves me._ To hear those words had been the desire of his heart when he had ceased thinking of her as a prize to be taken. That she had taken his bitter words from that first night, turning them into a promise of undying love enveloped him like the warmth of a summer's day. His mouth found hers repeatedly, stopping only long enough for brief gasps of air, neither noticing that his mask had loosened and silently fallen onto the snow-dusted terrace.

§

He was not even aware during the frenzy of their kissing that his hands had left her face, instead delving under her cloak to become intertwined around rest of her body, sensually caressing it, and drawing it closer into his. Abruptly, reality hit him with the knowledge that in her abbreviated _toilette_, she would certainly grasp how _aroused_ he was by such unaccustomed intimacy on his part. Reluctantly, in his embarrassment, he pulled away from the gentle curves of her hips, the yielding swells of her breasts, the warmth of her face, only to feel a waft of cool air on his right cheek. His hand instinctively flew to his face…

Christine, murmuring in disappointed at the loss of his body heat, glanced up, and caught his hand in a death grip before it reached his face, simultaneously hissing an emphatic _No_. Pulling his head down, her fingers entwined in his silky hair, she covered the twisted maze of skin with the lightest of kisses, tasting his fresh tears that flowed in the slight valleys between the ridges of his scars.

Sighing in gracious defeat, Erik allowed her to continue her ministrations, still prudently guarding against any further immodest contact. But the lady had other plans. Surrounding his back with her arms and jerking him against her, she sought his lips again. As he tried to push her a bit away, he found his lady surprising strong and totally reluctant.

"Angel, please, I…" groaning into her mouth, feeling his willpower sorely tried. Christine broke away from his lips to glance at him with knowing speculation. Kissing his chin, she murmured, "I love you, I love all of you," finally dropping her head to nestle onto his broad shoulder. Erik, chivalrously realizing the futility of arguing the point, turned her around, wrapping his cape around the both of them, which afforded him an excellent opportunity to nuzzle her ears and neck with fresh kisses, his arms securely wrapped around her tiny waist. At that moment, a rush of cheers from below reached the top of the Populaire, followed by a dazzling display of fireworks. The old year was over. It was the beginning of a new year.

§

A slight tremor from Christine startled Erik out of his waking dream, one caught up in the current brightness of the evening sky and the proximity of her softness.

"My Angel, are you cold?" Instinctively he clasped her tighter if that was utterly possible.

"No. Erik, Mme. Giry and the Comtesse… They'll wonder where we are and…"

"And?"

"You will laugh at me."

"Probably, but you should tell me anyway."

"I do not seem to be able to eat before performances and I am quite famished."

"Then we must tend to that immediately before you become faint. My love, you are as light as thistle down but I have no desire to carry you down numerous flights of stairs."

Christine arched her eyebrows at him in amusement, "I trust you were not overstrained by your exertions last night on my behalf."

In punishment for her impertinent remark, he began to nibble on her earlobe once again.

Giggling, she touched his face. "Erik, take care not to swallow my eardrop. I suspect it is not particularly digestible."

"Then, _ma_ _chérie amour_, I shall purchase you another pair. But you are right, we should take supper."

Reluctantly disengaging, Christine pulled her cloak tight around her, regretfully watching Erik position the mask back on his face. _Someday_.

Holding out his hand to take hers, he breathed almost prayerfully, "Christine, I love you."

§

As they descended the numerous stairs from the uppermost parts of the opera house, she requested they stop at her dressing room in order for her to deposit her cloak and retrieve her mask. Erik bristled somewhat at the mention of the latter but she chose to ignore his reaction. Her mask made his more unremarkable for the duration of the evening.

Christine entered the room and relit the gas lamps, slyly observing Erik's reaction to the volume of flower baskets. He grimaced momentarily, choosing instead to flatter her on her taste in the redecoration. She laughed at his compliment, knowing well that he felt Carlotta had the common taste of a strumpet. Carefully placing her rose on the dresser and removing her gloves, she walked over to the wardrobe, ostensibly to hang her cloak and his cape, returning with a brightly painted wooden box in her hands. Its lustrous varnished surface gleamed in the gaslight.

"It's New Year's Day, time for the adults to give and receive their Christmas gifts." Motioning him to sit in her dresser chair, she handed him the box, her own delicate figure gracefully sinking to the floor beside his knee. Erik regarded its vivid red, blue, and gold designs on fine wooden craftsmanship, indicating its Swedish origin. _She has given me a Christmas gift, my first._

"Herr Bobergh, M. Worth's partner, located this for me at my request during his latest trip to Sweden. Open it!" Christine eyes danced with joy as if she was a young child receiving her own Christmas gift.

After placing his own gloves on the dresser, he opened the box, noting a shallow wooden inset, obviously the first of several. In it lay a hinged picture case and a parchment copied in her copperplate handwriting, reading:

_My own Belovèd, who hast lifted me_

_From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,_

_And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown_

_A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully_

_Shines out again, as all the angels see,_

_Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,_

_Who camest to me when the world was gone,_

_And I who looked for only God, found thee!_

_I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad._

_As one who stands in dewless asphodel,_

_Looks backward on the tedious time he had_

_In the upper life, — so I, with bosom-swell,_

_Make witness, here, between the good and bad,_

_That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well._

He recognized it from Mrs. Browning's book of sonnets. Below it, Christine had written:

_Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas._

_Christine_

More to himself, he whispered, "The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing."

Christine looked up at him anxiously from her position on the floor, marking his reaction. He grabbed her hand, turning her palm up to drop a passionate kiss on it. Opening the red leather case with its intricately tooled image of the stain glass angel in the opera chapel on its front, he gasped at the delicately hand-colored albumin print of Christine in her Elissa gown. From her pose in a ¾ length, front left profile, her head slightly tilted down, the camera had captured the questioning pensiveness of her velvety eyes and the slightly upturned corners of a faint smile on her lips. The colorist had miraculously duplicated the ivory tone of her delicate skin, the rose of her lips and cheeks, and the striking mahogany tints of her ringlets. Surrounded by a hexagonal gold leaf frame, the print sat opposite a green velvet pad bearing an intricately embroidered single red rose tied with a black ribbon.

"My managers wished to present me a commemorative of my return to the Populaire. Actually, M. Andre accompanied me to the studio of Mayer and Pierson, fearing that M. Pierson might wish to photograph me in the scandalous manner as he had for the Comtesse de Castiglione. Sadly, I suspect I project an air of conventionality that did not inspire him," she sighed in mock dismay.

Erik twinkled at her guileless comment. _No, my Angel, you are nothing like that leg-baring trollop of the Emperor's, but after tonight, I would consider you far from conventional._

Lifting the insert, he discovered the second layer strewn with artifacts of her life at the Populaire—a copy of the program for _Hannibal_, ballet shoe ribbons, sheet music for Elissa's aria, scraps of tulle from her practice skirts, newspaper clippings of her debut, a dried rose with a black ribbon…

"Meg found it and returned it to me the morning after the Gala. Raoul would have been furious had he known but I could not bear to part with it. Mme Giry kept it for me in her suite after I returned to the dormitories and took it to her house with my other keepsakes rescued after the fire." Her somber wistfulness cooled his initial flash of anger at hearing de Chagny's name. _No, that boy would not spoil this night._

The third insert held another leather case, this one containing a daguerreotype. He recognized one of the trio as Gustave Daaé from the chapel portrait but the woman and child? _Christine's mother?_ The owl-eyed, curly-headed moppet in her lap must be Christine. Was it taken just before her mother died? Yes, Christine could be near to age six. Erik's attention drifted back to the mother. She appeared to be in her mid-to-late twenties, looking as he imagined Christine would in a few years, save for the pale eyes and long fair ringlets. To the side was a cardboard box of Vuillame's rosin on top of sheets of violin music. Lastly was a well-worn little wooden horse with no tail. It was a bit faded but one could still see the varnished reddish-orange coloring on the body, its saddle and bridle more a painted festoon of flowers and vines. Erik lifted his eyebrow in question and handed it to her.

Christine solemnly turned it over in her hands, finally stroking its small head. "It's called a Dala Horse and I suppose every child in Sweden has one. Mother bought this for me because of my childhood fascination with ponies. I kept it but I don't recall playing with it after her death." She handed it back to him to replace in the box.

_Yes_, Erik thought. _Both of us are orphans._

He lifted this insert to reveal the bottom of the box which was bare save for a dark green velvet jeweler's box. Opening it, he found a gold watch fob in the shape of an anchor. _An anchor?_ Holding her hand out for his watch, she took the fob out of the box and attached it to the end of his watch chain, placing it back in his large hand and folding his long slender fingers over it. Christine was now smiling tremulously, speaking in a low tone.

"After Pandora had released the sprites of evil into the world she hung her head in shame, weeping bitterly at her foolish thoughtlessness. But they had cried so pitiably to be released and she felt compassion for their plight. The hurt screams of her mate, Epimetheus, as he was being attacked, battered her ears, causing her tears to flow even harder. For their assault of her did not compare to the brutality of his. She could do nothing to aid him from their cruel bites and stings."

"Finally, when his cries had faded, Pandora heard another voice from the box pleading to be released after she already had slammed the lid shut. The voice begged piteously, swearing that she was not like the others."

"Pandora had no faith in her words but what damage could one more evil sprite inflict? The world had already turned black with pain. As she dejectedly reopened the box, the last sprite flew out but she was not at all like the others as she had promised. Her beautiful diaphanous wings put one in mind of an angel. After healing all of Pandora's wounds with a touch, she flew to Epimetheus to tend his."

"The sprite had said her name was Hope. She flew back to Pandora, to reside in her heart, to be shared with her mate and the rest of humanity. What was done could not be undone, but Hope had given herself to make the pain of suffering now bearable. Perhaps it was enough."

Christine looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. "My Angel, when you stop to note the passage of time, you will always have a reminder from your "prying Pandora" that hope can never be lost because it dwells in the safest of refuges—our hearts."

He dropped down to the floor to gather her into his arms.

§

Christine's tears had abated to an occasional shudder but Erik's reaction was still pounding through his body, causing his hand to nearly crush his watch. _Hope_. It was beating against his heart, urging him to do that which he had dreamed of for so long. Reason tried to cut it off—think of her future—she has a right to sing professionally, to be a great lady in society, to bear unblemished children—but hope held its ground in defiance of logic. Faith had come to its aid.

Erik glanced around as they huddled on the soft carpet like two lost children _except they had found each other this time_, choosing to cling desperately to each other for comfort. Perhaps it was a fitting moment in light of the individual misery they had experienced as they each huddled alone on the damp floor of the lair that first night, unable to span the emotional chasm that had separated them.

He put his hand under her chin to raise it, still damp from the salty residue of her tears, looking at her as if nothing else existed in the world.

"Christine Daaé, will you do me the greatest honor imaginable of becoming my wife."

At first, she did not recognize the 'yes' that obviously was her voice. Her eyes grew huge with wonder as she realized that Christine Daaé's heart had taken the initiative, speaking in her stead. No matter, the look of joy on Erik's face was an incredible gift.

Her response had been so swift that he had not had any time bow under the tension of awaiting a response. _She said yes!_ _What now? What does one do nex…_

She leaned over and accorded him the gentlest of kisses, freeing him of one decision. Then he remembered…

Delving into his vest pocket, he replaced his watch. Grabbing her right hand, he slipped a band onto her ring finger without her being aware, that is, until he held that hand up to his lips to kiss. Christine gasped in shock, taking her hand back as soon as he released it. It contained nine of the most exquisite rubies she had ever seen in a setting of rose gold. A round middle ruby was flanked on each side by two larger oval ones, on top and bottom by three smaller ones.

Erik smiled shyly at her, kissing her temple. "Do you like your Christmas gift?"

"Oh, yes!" she replied breathlessly. "Erik, are you always so certain regarding outcomes of your actions?"

"No, _ma mie_, but I try to be prepared for any eventuality."

Christine stared dreamily at her ring. _She was to be a bride, married to the desire of her heart this time. What did that mean?_

Erik's voice drew her back, "Christine, you still have not dined. We should leave now."

"Hmm—yes, we should go. The Comtesse and Madame…" She sat down in the dresser chair to repair the ravages of her makeup, leaving Erik fascinated by the sheer intimacy of her actions. It was the first of so many simple gestures she would artlessly perform in his company _as his wife_, without hesitation or nervousness. Gathering her gloves, mask, dance card, and fan, handing him his gloves, she walked towards the door, to be stopped by his hand on her bare shoulder.

"My dear, we are not meeting them. I am having a note delivered to inform them we shall rendezvous after supper."

"Erik, where are we going?"

§

Under Erik's amused gaze, Christine picked daintily at her _Bombe_ _glacée_, wishing that, in this particular case, dessert could have been the first course. As it was, she could barely take another bite or another sip of the dizzying array of wines served, from the finely aged Madeira to the delightfully silky _Château Lafite_. Her future husband was bursting with surprises tonight, arranging for the _Café Anglais_ to cater a private meal on one of the busiest nights of the year and not just any meal. He had requested certain dishes to be recreated from the "Dinner of the Three Emperors", teasing that a meal for three crowned heads of Europe _might_ be suitable for _his_ queen. Adding to his audacity was his choice of the location for this feast—box five. The managers had graciously acquiesced to his unusual request to dine there, likely ascribing it to his overall eccentricity. That he was sharing it with a lovely mademoiselle was none of their business.

She was more hungry for information than the wonderful courses that a footman set and removed before them—Empress soup, creamed chicken soufflé, filet of sole _à la vénitienne_, chicken _à la portugaise_, duck _à la rouennaise_, lobster à _la parisienne_, delicious sides, piquant ices. His stories of Bezancourt, the chateau, his meeting with the Comtesse and the Archbishop of Rouen, and St. Martin de Mondaye helped her piece together the puzzle of his life over much of the past year; she asked a few questions about the chateau but was content mainly hear his narrative and digest its contents.

As he approached the end of his tale, Erik realized that Christine had said little about her own life, limiting herself to questions regarding the practical matters of the chateau. From the nature of her questions, he realized that Madeleine was right—she had been well taught in the intricacies of household management. Actually, Madeleine, in pride, had stopped short of admitting that the student had exceeded the teacher.

"_Mon amour_, you have let me ramble but have kept silent about yourself. I would know your thoughts."

Christine arose from her chair, moving to the box's edge. Running her fingertips along its velvet border, she spoke, more to the stage than him. "Erik, I am contractually obligated to the managers until Holy Week, after which we may marry."

Her non-sequetur rattled his composure. She was eerily calm about leaving the Populaire.

Walking up behind her, he pulled her snugly against him. "Christine, you are at the beginning of a glorious career. I wonder if I have a right to take you away from that. If there is anyway possible for you to continue then I…."

"Erik, you heard everything at the opera house. You know what they said about Raoul and me."

The former opera ghost gritted his teeth in anger at the memory. They accused her of being the Vicomte's lover, only to add his name to the list when he revealed their connection with those damned notes. "_The Angel of Music has her under his wing_." _How could I have been such an arrogant fool?_

"The managers now believe that I am your mistress; I saw it in their eyes. They probably assumed I was Piangi's lover, except that he was too terrified of Carlotta's wrath to even approach me, except during rehearsals." Gesturing to the stage she continued, "I love what I feel there when I can open my mouth and pour out my feelings to music. But when I walk off that stage, I am just another diva, expected to be as free with her favors as she is with her vocal talents. If they could only leave me in peace to sing—but they won't. The notion that an opera singer would wish to bestow the gift of her body only to her husband, duly blessed by Holy Mother Church, is beyond their comprehension. Perhaps one day that will change but I fear not in this decade and perhaps not in this century."

Erik held his breath during her diatribe, only to release it at her last words. Though he would never have mentioned it or held it against her—he loved her too dearly for that—it had preyed at the edges of his mind that de Chagny might have compromised her with his remarkable persuasiveness. However, it would seem that the lady was made of sterner stuff, no doubt giving that boy little joy of her. _Why was he surprised?_ Christine had defied de Chagny during _Don Juan Triumphant_. He closed his eyes in prayer.

_Holy Virgin, your humbled servant thanks you. I swear I will keep her pure until our wedding night—even if it kills me._ Holding her tighter, inhaling the innocently sensuous odor of violets wafting off her exposed skin, he mutely groaned, reflecting on his eminent demise.

§

The Comtesse felt as self-satisfied as a cat with a bowl of fresh cream upon the return of the truants, speculating if Erik had put that ring to good use. The trip to Boucheron's boutique in the _Palais Roya_l at his behest, with gems and sketched design, had been quite amusing. When the clerk saw them, he immediately darted off to fetch Frédéric Boucheron, the proprietor, while she eyed the velvet draping and chandeliers in his establishment with a sniff, thinking it fortunate the reputation of his artisanship surpassed his taste in decor. M. Boucheron, in turn, asked if the drawing was the work of another jeweler. Moreover, where did she find such exquisite stones?

As the two approached the table, she turned her attention to Erik and archly speculated, "Well?"

"Madeleine, Christine and I must speak to Minette in private. Will you excuse us?"

The Comtesse de Chagny and Mme. Giry exchanged knowing glances. Madeleine had enlightened her about the ring. And as Christine's legal guardian, Minette would be required to give permission for the _jeunne femme_ to marry.

"Of course, my dear boy. But what if she says no?"

The look on Erik's face sent the older women into a fit of hilarity. Eventually, Erik's frosty stare evaporated into a weak smile, encouraged by Christine's playful squeeze on his arm.

"Erik, you have just learned an important first lesson about marriage. Always keep a sense of humor about you. Christine, I advise you avoid the dance floor in your search for privacy. We have turned away a few names on your dance card while you two have no doubt been scandalously comporting yourselves, and unchaperoned, I might add... Erik, remember, _humor_," she added as his face clouded again.

"Madame, I will resume my dance card obligations after we have talked and apologize to those I have neglected." Erik looked as if he wished to say something to Christine but thought better of it.

Some fifteen minutes later the party returned with two beaming ladies and one relieved looking gentleman. Minette stated her approval to the Comtesse with "lovely ring" and announced that the Christine and the Giry's would be visiting the chateau in Bezancourt for the Populaire's Twelfth Night break, occurring the rest of this week and the following. After all, she wished to make sure her foster daughter would be comfortably situated in her future marriage. Erik's grin at Madeleine's ironic bark of laughter elicited his first genuine smile since reappearing at the table.

"Erik, have you selected a date?" The Comtess watched idly as Christine stripped off her glove in the presence of the newly arrived Meg.

"We are considering the second Wednesday after Easter. I realize that traditionally Christine should be married at the Madeleine but prudence would suggest that my _paroisse_ at Bezancout would be more suitable."

Madeleine nodded in agreement. It was unquestionably sensible.

"Three months. I am amazed that you are waiting that long."

He snorted in agreement at her observation. "The ladies would have me believe otherwise. My ears hurt from talk of birth records, baptismal certificates, letters of permission, publishing banns, and the like. One would think that France encourages unwedded cohabitation as difficult as she makes it for a couple to marry."

"Erik, perhaps France takes a vested interest in making sure a couple is serious about a legal commitment by making them struggle through the process." His noncommittal shrug did not suggest that he agreed.

"Then, there was the issue of the trousseau. When I mentioned that I would purchase her a new one to replace the one she obtained from Worth and Bobergh, she insisted that she had refunded you out of her salary after she broke the engagement and there was no need to replace a perfectly suitable wardrobe. I have not seen her dig in her heels in refusal like this since the time I attempted to teach her Greek."

Madeleine rolled her eyes in exasperation. Only in France, where is was customary, would a gentleman become involved in issues of purchasing his betroth's trousseau. Those stuffy English were probably scandalized by the notion.

"I would have dug in my heels at learning Greek, too, and yes, she did repay me. Erik, you must understand that Christine grew up in humble circumstances and it is difficult for her to discard those ways. When I was teaching her household management, she was forever devising schemes to control costs. Actually, some of her suggestions were quite sensible. So how was the matter resolved?"

"We reached a compromise. She will keep a handful of her favorite outfits and donate the others and her intimate apparel to Meg." Secretly, Erik would have settled for the dispatch of the latter alone. Something about that boy purchasing _those_ items set his teeth on edge.

Madeleine smiled warmly at his response.

"Ah, you have learned the second lesson."

§

Madeleine's proudly erect shoulders drooped in fatigue as the footman opened the door to the de Chagny townhouse. Erik had asked for loan of her carriage that he might take Christine for an evening drive before delivering her back to the Giry's. At that request, she had become all teasing protests and mock propriety. Only until Erik mentioned they would be visiting the _Bois de Boulogne_ did she become uncharacteristically quiet, swiftly giving her permission. _It was an odd night to bring up such an old memory._

Her maid hurried down the stairs to gather her cloak, gloves, and fan, prattling incoherently about the Comte de Chagny, pointing towards the library. _Michel?_ He was not due back for a few more weeks. Suddenly she felt a warm relaxation slide through her body, realizing how much she had missed her husband. The high drama of the past few months had been exhilarating but in truth, she was no longer young, and looked forward to resting in his calm center.

Shyly pushing the door ajar, she received her first glimpse of him in months, his long limbs comfortably ensconced in a large upholstered chair before the fireplace, a glass of cognac in his right hand. Though only his profile was visible, she knew his features better than her own—the straight dark hair now shot with silver, the clear gray eyes, firm clefted chin, a strong aquiline nose which just allowed his handsome face to escape effeminate prettiness. _Something about it stirred what?…_

In a fit of girlishness, she ran to his chair and sank down on the floor beside him, taking his left hand and pressing it against her cheek. Michel deposited his glass on side table and took her face in both hands, lightly kissing her lips.

"Michel, you have arrived early. What of Raoul?"

"My dear, I have brought you the Christmas present you would most desire. Raoul is at the chateau, awaiting our return." He smiled almost imperceptibly at her, noting that in the firelight she looked much she did as their wedding day.

Madeleine's bubble of delighted laughter at the news was tempered by the realization that she would have to confess the events of the last few months sooner than she had imagined. This would not be easy.

She looked at her husband again, noting his tiredness and a, was it possible, _coolness_?

He picked up his cognac offering her a sip, taking his own upon her nod of refusal.

"Madeleine, tell me about this Erik de Carpentier."


	17. Chapter 17

**To Guard Me And To Guide Me**

_One last obligation to be honored_. His hands had trembled slightly at the rough feel of the well-worn violin case. This enormity of her gesture at their parting, after an evening filled with its tokens of healing grace, ripped through another layer of his armor simply because Christine had entrusted him with her most valuable possession. To his why she answered with an unsteady laugh that belied the aching seriousness of the moment. _My angel, it is never too soon to refresh your skills that you might teach our children to play.._

Once, he had shamefully tried to impersonate her father. Now she was redeeming that omission by allowing him pass on that portion of Gustave Daaé's legacy to which she did not have access but to which he did.

After directing the Comtesse's coachman to make one more stop before returning to Nadir's flat, Erik reflected on those last precious moments with his betrothed. Saying goodbye to her had been heartbreaking only to be tempered by the joy that she would arrive by train in two day to _their_ home. In any case, this obligation would have been fulfilled regardless of the outcome of the last two nights. That events had turned out as they had only made it more urgent.

The weary coachman made no comment as he stopped at his appointed designation. The _noblesse_ could be odd ducks at times but at long as they paid well he had no complaint. Still, a cemetery was a peculiar choice for an outing on this first day of the New Year.

Gathering the instrument, Erik dismounted from the carriage and reverentially approached Gustave Daaé's crypt, contemplating his behavior of a year ago to this man's daughter only to grimace at the irony that he was now to be the daughter's husband. Perhaps in this strange twist of events, Daaé's spirit had already shown its forgiveness, but he must say the words, if not for Christine's sake, then for his own soul's sake.

While kneeling at the bottom of the steps, his words tumbled out in a voice he hardly recognized.

"I have come to beg forgiveness for all the harm I have brought upon your daughter and the desecration I heaped upon your final resting place with my violence. Know that I will move Heaven and Earth to ensure her happiness and safety. No wife will be treated as lovingly and as honorably as I will treat her. And your grandchildren will know that, in some portion, the music in their veins flows from you through her."

Opening the case, Erik carefully withdrew the violin, a priceless _Guarneri del Gesù_ of nearly one hundred and fifty years, a gift from an indulgent patron who changed his musical tastes as often as other men changed coats. Rosining the bow and adjusting the strings, he placed the chinrest against his face and bowed the opening notes of _The_ _Resurrection of Lazarus_.

§

The muscles in Madeleine's back ached from her position on the floor by Michel's chair. She had not moved since explaining the appearance of Erik de Carpentier in her life and could not move at her husband's response. Years of secrets had finally caught up with her and him, threatening to topple the dignity and stability of the de Chagny name. She supposed she could not blame him; she, too, had left a shroud over her past. Right now, Michel looked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, while in reality he was carrying the de Chagny honor.

Looking down at the wife with resigned pain, her husband felt as equally guilty of deception and could not find it in his heart to hold her up to judgment. Letting his duty to bygone family obligations take precedent had led them to this sorry state. _Damn it, she and Raoul are family, too!_ He thought it would never be an issue, that they would live out the remainder of their lives in blissful ignorance. Nevertheless, Divine Intervention had caught up with the Comte de Chagny, first through the auspices of his son, and then his wife. No one was at fault and everyone was at fault.

Madeleine nearly swept away the question that had preyed on her mind throughout much of his discourse. _No more lies; the truth must be illuminated even if it scalds us._

"Michel, are you Erik's father."

Wincing painfully that his actions had reduced her asking him such, he gently tucked back one of her stray locks in response.

"No, Madeleine, _she_ could never have seen me in that way. For you see, may God have mercy on her soul, she loved his father beyond all reason."

The crack of a log breaking into glowing embers startled her back into the present. This was too much to take in but she must be strong for Michel and Raoul's sakes. Similarly roused from his own mental torpor, her husband spoke.

"My dear, this cannot be solved tonight. Both of us are exhausted. And there is still Raoul to deal with. He knows nothing of your association with Erik and must hear it from us before the servants gossip. Cardinal de Bonnechose has asked to be involved in any revelations. It would seem that he re-baptized Erik and considers himself his spiritual father. I would recommend we meet at Fleury-sur-Andelle. It is somehow fitting."

Madeleine nodded, suddenly remembering…

"Michel, Christine will be at his chateau with her foster mother and sister this week and next. She must come, too, which will unfortunately make it more difficult for Raoul."

"I know they are betrothed but should she be involved in this?"

"Trust me, Michel, you want her there for Erik's sake. Allow me to write the letters. I am confident that he will come out of trust and friendship towards me but the letter I pen to Christine will insure his presence."

"Very well. We should retire. It is almost morning."

At the crack of the door opening, a dozing Marthe jumped to her feet hastily, removing the black lace gown in order to slip a nightdress over her mistress' head. Receiving a negative response to her query if the Comtesse needed any further assistance, the lady's maid extinguished the lamps and drowsily padded to the comfort of her own bed.

Unable to close her eyes in the sheltering darkness, Madeleine tumbled from the comfort of her linen sheets to the harsher reality of a carpet floor. Evening prayers had been forgotten in the drama of the last few hours and needed to be addressed. _How had this all come to pass?_ The weight on her men would be intolerable. Worse, never had she felt so alone in her devotions except, perhaps for one other time in her life. That futility of it which drove her to open her eyes revealed a pattern of light and shadow playing across the bottom of her nightdress. Michel's adjoining bedchamber was still lit; the occasional breaks of shadows told her that he was still awake, pacing in turmoil in front of the door. _He is a good man—he does not deserve to carry this burden but he will, even if it kills him_ she thought Quietly, she turned the handle of the connecting door and slipped in.

§

Erik allowed the citrus scent of his custom-made Marseille soup relax him as he soaked away his weariness in the familiarity of his own bathtub. It was good to be back among the calmly familiar even though he missed Christine immensely. Two days would seem like a lifetime; three months an eternity. But at the end of that eternity lay the hope of a unbroken blissful existence, the first he could recall in his life. All else had been but a brief glimpse centered on Christine—her taking his hand in the lair, her embracing him on the bridge, her kisses both in the lair and later on the rooftop. Three months would see her as his bride, sent as an earthly angel by God to comfort his mortal existence, undeserving as he was. Unlike the rest of the world, there would be no masks between them.

Still, there was much to do—writing a wedding mass, arranging for new staff hires—Christine would need a lady's maid, additional visits to St. Martin de Mondaye to check the progress of the additions. De Bonnechose and the Cathedral organist, M. Vincent, had written him respectively, urging submissions of sacred music compositions and participation in the organ recital series. Perhaps it was time as Madeleine had expressed at their first meeting to connect gradually to society. Paris was closed to him; Christine Daaé's association with a scarred Phantom might not be easily forgotten for years if at all. But possibly Rouen… There she would be known as Mme. Erik de Carpentier, protected by family connections, however obscure, if Madeleine was to be believed. Vincent had spoken of a lively musical heritage in the city, including an opera house that had entertained some of the finest voices in Europe. It was no Populaire but then the Populaire was rapidly bastardizing its legacy with inept management. _Perhaps building a townhouse in Rouen might be practical, one to rival the grand hôtels in Paris._ Erik snorted at the idea of another design in the works; the three months was shrinking rapidly.

_Oh, yes, the marriage documentation_. There would need to be a journey to Bolbec to retrieve birth credentials; perhaps if would be better if his steward handled that issue, sparing him unpleasant memories. No, his life would be his present and his future, cheekily punctuating that resolution by dunking his head under the soothing water. He would have no past.

§

Germaine Dumont struggled to maintain her air of reserve as she waited for Perrot, the butler, outside the library. She could not ever recall Monsieur wishing to speak to them at the same time. Had they done something wrong?

Both she and Perrot had risen to their present rank in the household based on the very odd requirements of their new employer. M. de Carpentier had requested a highly trained housemaid and footman who were ready to assume the responsibility of housekeeper and butler. Additionally, they were to be "of the country", not trained in the townhouses of Rouen or Paris. M. de Tourtier, the steward, had been rigorous in his interview, warning her of Monsieur's _peculiarities_. Nonetheless, she was a stouthearted _Normandaise_ from Gournay-en-Bray, not about to be intimidated by a mask. The surprise was not the mask, but Monsieur himself. At first, she could not decide if he was quietly arrogant or painfully shy. Certainly, he kept to himself with little contact with the servants. But something changed in him beginning last spring when he made frequent visits to Père Maillard, followed by his prolonged sojourn at the Abbey of St. Martin de Mondaye. He seemed to notice those around him, checking with Perrot and her to make sure that all was well with the staff. Nevertheless, it was after his previous trip to Paris and the call by the Comtesse de Chagny that she noticed the greatest change. He would occasionally laugh.

"Perrot, quickly! Monsieur cannot abide tardiness. We must hurry."

This meeting of the most senior staff, too, puzzled the butler. His life at the chateau had started hectically, gradually to ease into a well-managed routine. M. de Tourtier had required his and Dumont's assistance to hire a green staff from the Bezancourt area and train them into their positions. It was quite a step up in responsibility from his position as first footman to a great estate outside Gisors, but he and Dumont were ambitious, eager to display their skills.

Both marveled at the ingenuity Monsieur had put into the renovation. All of the conveniences were of the most modern with an eye to the comfort not only of the master but also of the staff. The attic servant quarters were well ventilated in the summer and warmed in the winter by the heat from the huge coal-fired furnace in the cellar, its heat rising through the registers on every level, supplemented where necessary by coal-burning stoves. A huge copper-lined oaken cistern in the attic, fed by rain caught on the roof tiles, fed through copper pipes by gravity throughout the house. Even the water closets were a marvel, designed of custom designed porcelain instead of wood or metal, able to be thoroughly flushed and properly vented. A copper water tank attached to the furnace sent hot water to the upper stories, pressure fed by the weight of the water in the cistern. Not just in second story bathrooms but in the _two_ bathrooms allowed in the servants' quarters. With dumbwaiters at the back of the chateau to carry coal from the cellar, food to the dining and breakfast room, and just about anything else, hauling up and down stairs was almost nonexistent. The maids were particularly grateful for this boon. Most amazing was that Monsieur himself designed these systems and was perfectly willing to effect any repairs or make additional improvements. On more than one occasion, Perrot had seen him in shirtsleeves and workgloves, tinkering with the furnace or adjusting the water flow through the piping.

Any servant deciding that life might be a bit dull at the chateau or long for the convenience of gaslights in the larger towns would be urged by the senior staff to evaluate carefully their options elsewhere. Monsieur was generous with wages and time off. But he did demand the house be kept _spotless_, which consumed much of the energy not used hauling coal and buckets of hot water up and down stairs. Sweeping, dusting, laundry, cleaning stoves and fireplaces, and polishing kerosene lamps was never ending.

§

Erik bade the housekeeper and butler enter at their discreet knock. He knew he was about to throw his household into an uproar but that could not be helped. Léon, the second footman, had placed the Swedish box on his dresser, leaving to draw the master's bath before returning to unpack. On a whim, that master opened the lid to pull out her picture for a moment, snapping the case shut to replace it, only to stop and reconsider. They would know soon enough; Christine could hardly be kept secret as she was to be their mistress in three months on top of arriving for a visit in two days. _Best give them time to become accustomed_. He carefully placed the open picture case on his bed stand, wickedly deliberating on how long it would take all of the servants to slip unawares into his bedchamber after Léon had made his report in the servants' hall. Normally quick to respond to such an infraction, rather he would demur in this highly unusual situation worthy of a degree of laxity. Christine would be amused.

Uncharacteristically, Erik motioned Perrot and Mme Dumont to be seated at the chairs placed in front of his desk, setting his hands in his lap so they might not see his fidgeting. Christine had been such a private, nay, secret part of his life and now she would be very public as his betrothed and eventual wife. It both excited him and made him nervous.

"I regret the short notice but I will be expecting houseguests in two days. There will be three—Mme. Jules Giry, her daughter Mlle. Marguerite and her foster daughter Mlle. Christine Daaé. Mlle. Daaé and I are to be married in three months and no doubt, she will use this opportunity to become acquainted with your routine, Mme Dumont. You will find her well versed in the workings of a household of this size as the Comtesse the Chagny has tutored her in all aspects. Please inform the staff of these impending changes."

Mme. Dumont exchanged fleeting glances with Perrot, satisfied that, like hers, his face bore no evidence of the shock both collectively must be feeling. For all of his air of disinterest, Monsieur might have just announced that he wished lamb instead of fish for dinner. What is more, the shock for the rest of the staff would be the same as if he were informing them that the Emperor and Empress were about to pay a visit. _Monsieur taking a wife!_

Erik had willed his voice to assume a calmness he was not feeling.

"You have done a fine job of training the staff. I am sure they will perform their duties in their usual efficient manner. Do you have any questions? No, if not, you are dismissed."

Both scurried downstairs to the servants' hall as fast as the respectability of their position would allow. So much work to be done in two days! A meeting of the entire staff must be called immediately. As they entered the hall, it would seem that the staff had been called together already. Léon and Suzanne the senior upstairs chambermaid, were holding court around the dining table in front of the massive fireplace, not realizing their superiors had entered the room.

Relishing her position as center of attention, Suzanne blurted, "It was like this. I went upstairs after Monsieur had retired to his bath to see if his chamber needed any further tidying. Léon was unpacking his luggage and like a typical man did not notice _it_."

The other maids leaned towards her with a questioning "Well?" while the menservants smirked at another example of Suzanne's love for theatrics. She always found a way to be in on the second floor when Monsieur was playing his piano, doubtless dreaming of music and the stage.

"It was a tinted photograph of a lady. Alice, Hélène, you should see it. The most beautiful long curly hair, her skin is perfect, huge dark eyes, and oh yes, she has the smallest waist you have ever seen. I wonder who made her dress. She looks like she's not even twenty yet."

Mme Dumont stepped forward to take charge of her errant maid. Suzanne, as well as she, Perrot, and Mme. Gobert, the cook, had been the exception to the rule for hiring outside the Bezancourt area. The housekeeper wished one of the maids to have strong sewing skill and as Suzanne had trained with her aunt, a dressmaker in Gisors, she fit the bill. Perrot vouched for the family, and although the young maid could be a bit dreamy and opinionated, she was quick, literate and skilled with a needle.

"Suzanne, hold your tongue; personal items in Monsieur's bedchamber are not a fit topic of discussion. Perrot and I have an announcement to make. Monsieur has informed us that three ladies will be visiting in two days. They are Mme. Jules Giry, Mlle. Marguerite Giry, and Mlle Christine Daaé. Furthermore, Monsieur wished me to inform you that he and Mlle Daaé are to be married in three months so we must take that opportunity and prepare for our new mistress."

The staff allowed themselves that which Perrot and she, in their professionalism had denied themselves—the right to look dumbfounded. She was only just recovering from the initial shock of Monsieur's announcement, wondering if, with his face, this was a marriage of convenience. Arranged marriages among the wealthy were to be expected. And considering his kinship with the noble de Chagny's, it might be expected. Could it be possible that the Comtesse had arranged this since he mentioned that the noble lady had trained Mlle. Daaé? Perhaps Monsieur had met his intended at the de Chagny chateau. What kind of name was Daaé? German, perhaps Dutch, or Scandinavian? Mayhap, she was an undowered foreign relative looking for a suitable alliance.

_I have become so used to serving a bachelor as housekeeper. Will I be able to accommodate a mistress?_

With a slight shake of her head, she continued her instructions to the staff.

"In the meantime, I am sure Monsieur will be pleased to have his lunch served after a fatiguing journey. Paris may have all the fine chefs but nothing can best the freshness of our own local dishes."

Mme. Gobert beamed in gratitude at the housekeeper's compliment. Like Mme. Camier at the _presbytère_, she felt that Monsieur was far too slender and must have a steady supply of wholesome and tasty victuals. Indeed, her marvelous coal cook stove made her duties that much easier. Its attached copper hot water tank with a pipe that fed into the next-door scullery produced ample hot water for cleanup, much to the relief of the beleaguered scullery maid.

Suzanne nudged her fellow maids in the ribs as Mme Dumont made her announcement. Until they had a chance to see the picture or Mlle Daaé or the lady in person, they would not know how very beautiful she was—for surely the upstairs portrait must be of her. The others might laugh at her but she dreamed that Monsieur might be making a love match—just like her favorite childhood story, _Beauty and the Beast_ by Madame Le Prince de Beaumont. Of course, if Monsieur was hideously scarred as it was said, then it was unlikely he would turn into a handsome prince. Still, she was rather fond of the Beast, as was Beauty, just not enough to marry one.

§

Two days later, the staff was thankful that Monsieur had allowed all but the butler, housekeeper, and first footman to remain in the warmth of the great hall while he personally greeted the carriage with the ladies. Suzanne slipped unobtrusively behind a window drape in the anteroom at the risk Mme Dumont's wrath. She wished to be the first to see Mlle Daaé, to ascertain for herself the state of affairs between the couple. After all, she had been assigned position of lady's maid to the future mistress, while Alice and Hélène would serve the two other ladies.

Monsieur had usurped Jean-Louis' duties, handing down the ladies one-by-one from the carriage. The first was a handsome middle-aged lady dressed in black. Next came a lovely young blonde version of the older lady, becomingly clad in dark blue; obviously this was Mlle. Giry. Finally, Suzanne was rewarded for her cunning and patience. Monsieur handed down Mlle Daaé, the tallest and most fashionable of the three women, her severely tailored brown wool traveling dress under her warm dolman showing the finest of workmanship. Her tiny bonnet, perched daintily on masses of curls, was a stylish confection of matching felt adorned with loops and streamers of grosgrain ribbon, tied under her right jaw with a pert bow. As the mademoiselle planted both feet on the driveway, Monsieur delicately kissed the exposed part of her wristonly to next lingeringly kiss her cheek. His betrothed looked up at him…well, she looked at him as if he were a fresh apple tart just out of the oven. Perhaps Alice and Hélène would not make such sport of her fanciful ideas anymore.

Perrot escorted the ladies inside for Mme. Dumont to present the staff, Suzanne having slipped into place before the door opened. Each bobbed an appropriate curtsy or bow, trying not to stare rudely at Mlle. Daaé, who, in turn, was most gracious, addressing each by name and making some appropriate comment about their duties. Suzanne kept one eye on her future mistress with the other on her master. He was watching the petite mademoiselle intently, smiling as she occasionally glanced at him, his pale face suffused with more color than the young maid had ever seen in it.

_Aha_, Suzanne thought. _There will be a babe on the way within the year._

§

As she followed Suzanne to her appointed room, Christine ached from the effort of keeping her knees from _not_ knocking together. The morning train trip from Paris has been a jolly enough venture for the three women with much joking and smiling as the Girys were delighted to have a holiday in the fresh country air, out of the grime and pollution of Paris. But it was the instant that Jean-Louis greeted her in Gournay-en-Bray and handed her into the de Carpentier carriage that she felt her nerves begin their gentle task of fraying.

Nothing at the de Chagny chateau could prepare her for this. There she trained under the Comtesse to be just that—under the Comtesse. Those whom she supervised were the very ones who had help save her life, from Mme. Terreux's and her healing teas, the nursing care of the maids, to Cook's healthy convalescent menus.

_These were Erik's people._ They undoubtedly were trained to his exacting standards. What would they think of an interloper still in her teens?

Christine sighed in reflection. What made it bearable was Erik's sweet smile upon her arrival—and his kiss. For if that gesture did not strengthen her position as their future mistress then at least it left no doubt as to her position in his heart.

But when she saw the guarded look in Mme. Dumont's eyes, she inwardly berated her insensitivity. These people were undoubtedly as disconcerted as she. The housekeeper and butler were young for their respective positions with neither possibly being much above thirty. In fact, the entire staff seemed young with the exception of jolly Mme. Gobert. Two days was surely not enough time to digest all of the changes that were about to take place in their livelihood. There would be adjustments for everyone.

§

Suzanne led her into a bedchamber tastefully decorated in shades of plum damask offering, "Mademoiselle, if you wish, a warm bath can be drawn for you to wash off the travel dust. Alexandre has already brought up your trunk, which Hélène has unpacked and taken the liberty of selecting one outfit for the laundry maid to press before luncheon. I will attend to the rest."

Christine approved of Suzanne's thoughtful anticipation of her needs. She had learned from the Comtesse the bother that comes with hiring a maid in need of constant instruction.

"Please unhook my dress and inform M. de Carpentier that I will attend him in thirty minutes. You may help me dress after I take a sponge bath."

Susan unhooked her dress and scurried to the bathroom to bring back a pail of warm water for the washbasin, only to be informed in the hallway by Alice that the other ladies had elected to indulge in a leisurely bath before luncheon. After pouring the water in the basin and laying out fresh undergarments on the bed, she hurried downstairs that Jean-Louis might deliver the message posthaste to Monsieur in the library. Upon the winded maid's return, she discovered that Christine had finished her ablution and was waiting to have her corset laced and dress hooked. Suzanne worked efficiently as she studied every detail of the dress, in addition to noticing the costly ruby ring on Mademoiselle's right hand. The "Dolly Varden" polonaise with its combined bodice and tournured overskirt was all the rage in Paris according to a letter from her aunt. Mlle. Daaé's was a lovely green foulard sprigged with pink cabbage roses, a ruffle around its entire length, including the elbow-length sleeves. It fit like a glove over her solid green foulard shirt with its knee-deep ruffle. The black ribbon bow at her neck and pink coral eardrops completed the ensemble, adding to its eighteenth century quality. For some time Christine had been wearing her hair up in a more mature fashion but decided on a whim to brush it out and tie it back with a bow, disappointing Suzanne whose fingers were itching to try her skills at pinning up such a mass of curls in the style of a century ago. All of the other maids would allow her to fix their hair for Sunday Mass and other such occasions. Sensing her regret Christine promised to return before luncheon in order to have her hair pinned up.

Leaving the maid to attend her room, Christine approached the grand stairway, taking a measured look at the end of the hallway. Erik's suite was at the opposite end of the stairway from the ladies. As she prepared to descend, she nearly ran headlong into her future husband, both laughing at the awkward moment. Whispering, "Come with me," Erik grasped her hand and sped her to the end of the hall, stopping long enough to kiss her convincingly, tugging the ribbon from her hair and pocketing it. Giving a mock shriek in protest, she passionately returned his kisses as he twisted his hands through her curls.

As he gently pulled her down the hallway between kisses, Christine, in the midst of her enjoyment, became nervous at what must be an increasing proximity to his bedchamber. Her knees were trembling in earnest for another reason now. While holding her chin with his left hand, he used his right hand to open the door to a large well-lit room at the very end of the hallway. Christine broke contact long enough to take a quick sideways glance. In truth, she did not know whether to be relieved or _disappointed_, only to immediately chastise herself for her immodest thoughts. It was an above ground recreation of his lair. At one end was a magnificent grand piano. Along the walls were shelves with reams of sheet music, books of scores, and various musical instruments, including Father's violin. To one side was an artist's easel, worktable, and an architectural drafting table.

_This is his new lair _she realized with a start Noting the comparative neatness of its arrangement, she gurgled her response, "My Angel, you have tidied up for me."

Erik burst out laughing and kissed her breathlessly in retribution.

As they collapsed against each other in merriment, he was again reminded of the measure of joy that was permeating his life. Leading her to the piano, he took further liberties with her person before entreating her to sing.

"What would you like?" Christine demurely tucked her skirts as she took her place beside him on the bench. Erik longed to hear her sing but her proximity was threatening to best his good intentions.

"You mentioned at the Bal Masque that you have begun preliminary rehearsing for _The Daughter of the Regiment_. I would like to hear you sing "What, You Love Me?", my Marie."

Christine smiled tenderly at his request. The managers decided during rehearsals for _Lucie_ that she had a natural affinity for Donizetti. In truth, a warm love story with a happy conclusion suited her mood entirely. This duet was so lovely.

"Only if you sing it with me, my Tonio."

Sending a prayer of thanks to the Blessed Virgin, Hélène breathed easier at escaping detection by Monsieur and the petite Mademoiselle as they ran down the hall to the music room. _Drat! Must that Suzanne always be right?_ She turned away to continue her duties when she heard a male voice singing with unearthly beauty. _Monsieur?_ Of course, the whole staff had heard his wonderful piano playing but none had heard him sing. As she crept towards the end of the hallway, she heard a woman's voice join him, a voice that was as angelically pristine. Totally mesmerized, wrinkle clothing in hand, she did not notice that Alice and Suzanne had joined her in rapt attention.

§

With every heavenly bite, Christine reminded herself to send compliments to the kitchen for the delicious apple tart swimming in a pool of wonderfully fresh cream. Turning to hide his grin, Erik wondered if Christine would be content to subsist on desserts for the duration. In that lovely dress, she looked like a luscious dessert herself. It was intriguing, Erik mused, how flattering the styles of the previous century looked on her. The nobility would have swooned at her feet at Versailles. Even in powdered hair, she would have been stunning, except that it would have regrettably covered the fire-kissed glints in her lovely curls.

It was apparent to all that Mme. Gobert was eager to make a good impression on the visitors with Normandy's fine regional fare. The Dieppe sole with oysters was of the freshest as were the cheeses—_Neufchâtel_, _Pont-L'Evêque_, _Livarot_, and the round _Camembert_. In the Parisian fashion, wine was served instead of hard cider but each place setting held an aperitif of Calvados brandy. Early in the meal Christine's eyes had sparkled as the curious Meg took a sip and quickly set the stem down. As she had learned at the de Chagny chateau, Calvados was not for the faint of palate. Glancing over at Erik, she saw his eyes cast down, his lips twitching in amusement at Meg's reaction. _This is too bad of him_ she thought.

Taking her own glass, she raised it in salute to him, "To my host." and drained the contents.

Erik looked at her in amazement, followed by comprehension.

"Ladies, we have a local custom of serving aperitifs of Calvados with meals. As it is rather potent, feel free to decline."

Christine smiled sweetly at his recovery of manners and continued with her next course, vowing revenge with a certain bottle of akvavit, a gift from Herr Bobergh. Calvados was milksop in comparison.

§

"Christine, do you feel refreshed enough to go horseback riding this afternoon?"

She looked up from her last bite of tart at Erik in surprise. With no thoughts about riding, she had left her habit in Paris. As she shook her head and began to explain the dilemma, Erik interrupted her efforts.

"At the Bal Masque I asked Minette to pack your habit in secret. It is hanging in the clothes press in your guest chamber."

"But Mme Giry and Meg?" Both women assured her they would be entertaining themselves in the library with its vast amount of reading material.

Upstairs Suzanne, under orders from Erik, had already laid out her riding ensemble. Submitting to the lighter, more flexible riding corset in place of the everyday more constricting ones was a pleasure. After stepping into her chamois riding trousers, the maid lifted the long forest green wool skirt over her head, followed by the matching bodice with it double row of twelve buttons, notched lapels, peplum, and cuffs each covered in black velvet. Suzanne gathered her curls at her nape into a black net caul and positioned her filly hat of black wool felt low over her brow, fluffing the long net veil attached to the back of the crown. The afternoon had turned unseasonably warm, belying the need for an outer wrap.

"Mademoiselle, are you satisfied?" The maid tilted the cheval glass at an angle to show the outfit to advantage.

"Yes, it looks very well," Christine murmured with a twinge of guilt as she gathered her tan gloves and crop. The last time she had worn her habit, she had been atop Allegra. The Countess had assured her the mare was doing well and in the best of hands. Still, it hurt to think of her four-legged friend who had been such a patient confidante in those dark times of sadness.

§

"Erik, he is more handsome than you described him!" Christine exclaimed as a groom led Shamil out of the stables. The dark Arabian eyed the approaching jeunne fille warily until Erik murmured a few words in a language she did not recognize. At once, the animal relaxed, allowing her to proceed. In fact, to Christine, both horse and master looked exceptional today, with Erik in his black wool riding coat trimmed at the lapels with black velveteen, it accompanying pale buff jersey riding breeches covered by black riding boots showing his extraordinarily long limbs to best advantage. The white silk cravat casually knotted at his neck flowed over his open collar shirt, tucking into his black velveteen waistcoat embroidered in silk with a charcoal trellis background touched by silver threads as each cross-point. He carried no whip.

She supposed the language was no mystery. Erik had mentioned the horse was brought from Persia. Knowing his facility with language, she assumed he learned enough to communicate with his mount.

While she was absorbed in her admiration of Shamil, another groom was leading out her mount. A soft whinny prompted Christine to spin on her boot heel and shout "Allegra!" while running to the mare in a most unladylike fashion in order to throw her arms around the filly's neck and coo words of happiness.

Whirling around, she flew to her betrothed, throwing her arms around his neck. Not content to coo words of happiness to him, she instead kissed him roundly in front of the goggle-eyed groomsmen.

"Erik, how, why… Never mind. You purchased her from the Comtesse, didn't you?" Her eyes were brimming with tears that threatened to fall.

Remembering the Dala horse, Erik touched her cheek, whispering tightly, "She mentioned you would need a lady's mount and that she had one for sale," mentally sending thanks to Madeleine for her forethought.

Christine stepped back to Allegra to inspect her more carefully.

"Erik, she looks well, perhaps a little fat. Oh my, Erik, she's not…" Christine eyed Shamil with growing suspicion.

Her betrothed threw back his head and roared with laughter, nearly losing his black felt coachman hat in the process.

"No, my dear, but it is only a matter of time. She seems rather fond of him"

Christine suddenly became aware of the groomsmen holding the horses, no doubt drinking in every word of this very inappropriate conversation.

It was all Erik could do to not grin at the flaming red in her cheeks. Instead, he chose to divert her thoughts in order that she might collect herself.

"Christine, I have taken the liberty of designing a new sidesaddle for you. I think you will find this one infinity more comfortable and safer."

As she climbed the mounting block and hoisted into the saddle, Christine sighed in agreement. _It certainly felt more comfortable and secure._ That women only were allowed to ride sidesaddle aggrieved her no end but to do otherwise would be scandalous.

The mare snorted and pranced fretfully at the unexpected weight distribution on her back.

"Erik, it is obvious she had only been ridden astride in the past few months with a heavier rider. I am going to give Allegra her head."

Christine thundered away in flurry of flowing green skirts, black veiling, and dainty hooves. The man and stallion spun and followed the ladies in hot pursuit.

§

As the restless filly slowed to a walk upon reaching the edge of the Lyons forest, she glanced behind and twinkled at Erik beside her. He grinned and shrugged his innocence over the lack of a groom.

"It would irritate the Comtesse no end when I would ride without a groom," Christine remembered. "I suspect she would not be happy with this arrangement, either."

"Do you mean that you and de Chagny were accompanied by a groom?" Erik spoke evenly but Christine thought she heard a slight growl in his voice. It both surprised and pleased her that he had brought up the subject of Raoul first. She had avoided it entirely.

"Yes, we were, to my relie…," Christine bit her lip as not to finish the sentence. Perhaps being on Allegra had brought back old habits of speaking her thoughts aloud. But she was not alone with a horse now; Erik was looking at her intently.

"_Ma mignonne_, why were you relieved not to be in his company alone?"

Christine bent her head to stare at Allegra's mane. Erik and she had caressed each other in rather intimate ways but somehow talking of such subjects made it seem illicit. Mystifying Raoul's and her relationship, however, would only serve to empower it in his eyes.

Still staring down she continued haltingly. "It was never my intent to continue the engagement until he told me… I agreed to marry him. At least one person might be happy... Looking back, I see how utterly selfish it was of me. He deserved to be loved for himself. I delayed the wedding so that I might accustom myself to the prospect of my wifely duties. It was difficult, I was difficult…"

_Good_, Erik thought, drawing his stallion closer to her mare, placing his gloved hand over hers. He still found it mystifying at times to believe that she would prefer his touch to that of—_what did Nadir call him... ah yes, the beautiful boy._

"Madeleine said you defended my manhood to him before you departed the townhouse." Erik cursed his tactlessness as the words left his mouth, knowing the cause. _Why am I still in doubt? _

_Because you bloody fool, you live with what's behind this mask. And now, so does she._

Christine's eyes flew up to his face, wide with horror and embarrassment. When he looked down in pained awkwardness, she understood. _He lacks confidence that I have truly made my choice in every aspect. I can free him from this_.

Smiling tremulously, she cupped his left cheek, stroking it gently with her thumb. "Yes, my Angel, I did. I asked him if I had stayed with you would he have had delicious nightmares of yours and my body entwining."

Erik stared at her, astounded at discovering another facet of her nature. Sliding down from his horse, he grasped her waist and gently lifted her out of the saddle to the ground only to bend down to whisper into her ear while his hands slid languorously up her bodice. "_Ma belle_, remind me to _never_ make you angry," he breathed before kissing her rapturously.

§

Had he not been adjusting her crooked hat in just the right position, she might not have notice it before turning back to the chateau. Set among the trees at the perimeter of the forest was some kind of dwelling.

"Erik, look. It seems to be a farmhouse. Is it still within your property boundaries?"

He twisted his lips into a rueful smile, forgoing the urge to point out the obvious. His main goal in purchasing the estate had been privacy. To that end he had combined the purchase of the chateau with two adjoining pieces—one a huge parcel of grazing land and the other incorporating part of the forest, all totaling around 1000 hectares. The grazing land went for nearly market value while the other sold at a vastly reduced price.

"Yes, the farmhouse is on my property inventory. The previous owner, feeling unsure of his wisdom in choice of crop, sold the entire package to a land agent and set off to try his fortunes in the _Côte d'Ivoire_ coffee trade. It would never occur to me to invest in such a politically unsettled area of the world but then again I live in France and perhaps should not be so hypocritical."

Christine grinned at the irony of his last remark and persisted, "What was his crop?"

Snorting his opinion, Erik replied, "He had some idea of pressing cider, with a long term goal of distilling Calvados. It is possible to produce a drinkable Calvados outside the _Pays d'Auge_ region but one must have one's wits about them. The previous owner's enthusiasm seems to have outstripped his abilities. There is a 25-hectare plot of cider and brandy apples nearby and an unfinished press and distillery near the farmhouse."

Something tickled at the back of Christine's mind, something both happy and mournful. Wistfully she asked, "Could we examine it closer? There is something about it…"

Erik looked at her large sad eyes, compelled to immediately lace his gloved fingers for her foot in order to hoist her onto the sidesaddle. As she touched Allegra's hindquarter with her crop, he squeezed Shamil's barrel with his knees, causing both horses to pound the cold winter ground in a graceful canter.

§

It was a typical Norman farmhouse with its white stuccoed masonry, dark half-timbered trim, and brick decoration around the windows and doors. Christine walked up the covered double stairs, one leading up to the front door, the other leading down to the cellar. The glass panes in the front door allowed a dingy view of a kitchen with an ample worktable, to it left stood a serviceable cook stove with a fireplace in the far left corner.

Grasping the doorknob and twisting in vain, she frowned in disappointment. Mme. Dumont would surely have the key but she wanted to see this now.

"My love, could we return to fetch the key?"

"Christine, it is undoubtedly filthy in there," but her beseeching look gave him pause. She had been behaving strangely upon her first view of the house.

"Wait, give me one of your hairpins."

Christine regarded him strangely but acquiesced, pulling one through the netting of her caul. In no time, he had the door open.

Giggling in appreciation, she concluded, "It will be useful to have so talented a husband."

After glancing at the kitchen, she lifted her skirts and turned left though a doorway through a cozy parlor with a partitioned farm office. Its fireplace abutted that in the kitchen, at its back stood a doorway to two adjoining bedrooms, both with common access to the upstairs stairway.

As Christine mounted the stairs, Erik held her back. "I remember doing a walk through of this property. This upstairs is unfinished and unsafe. Under the overhanging east eaves are an all-purpose shed and the privies. Under the west eaves are a fruit-room and agricultural equipment shed"

Instead, she walked back through the second bedroom to the kitchen and looked out the window over the sink at the front of the house. It came to her.

"Erik, it reminds me of my last home with Mother and Father. We lived in an even smaller farmhouse like this. These were among my last memories of my mother. We were all so happy there. Father would go away occasionally to perform while Mother and I tended the cow and the chickens. Mother always said I was very good with the chickens."

"Father promised me a pony but money was scarce. Then he received an offer to become concertmaster at the Kungliga. We sold the farmhouse and moved to Stockholm into a small flat. I was not as happy there; I missed my chickens and didn't know where Father was going to stable the pony I dreamt of. But the opera house was so exciting and Father was treated grandly. Often, he took me there for the chorus to hear me sing. Best of all was the time Frau Lind travelled from her home in England to visit Sweden, stopping by to chat with old friends at the opera house. She agreed to hear me sing, making Father swear to obtain a vocal tutor for me when I was of an appropriate age."

"He could not keep that promise but he insisted, before dying, that Mme Giry must."

Erik closed his eyes. Minette had her secrets, too.

"Mother enjoyed Stockholm. She was a gifted pianist and would accompany Father in private concerts when he was not obligated to the Kungliga. A few months later, she died of cholera within a span of twenty-four hours. We never learn from what—it made no sense—Swedes are clean as cats."

"I was not allowed to say goodbye."

Erik remembered the tales of the great cholera epidemic in 1817, starting in Calcutta traveling through Persia as far north as the Autumn Fair in Ninji-Novgorod. Hundreds of thousands died. In each country he visited, the fear of this disease was palpable. Her mother did not die well.

"Father was inconsolable. He left the opera house and we began a three-year journey around Europe, playing at various fairs. Father tried to make it a great adventure, joking about our occasionally sleeping in barn lofts and scavenging for food. At first, it took my mind off Mother; I would sing while Father played. But at some point it becomes no life for a maturing girl and Father was far from well. While in France, he caught the attention of a wealthy patron who secured him first chair at the Populaire and promptly forsook him only later to purchase a grand crypt at his death, perhaps in guilt. It was later that I realized Father had abandoned his comforting gypsy life to secure my future as an opera diva, depending on the aid of his friend, the then assistant ballet mistress. I was too young to sing but Mme. Giry wished me to have a livelihood so she enrolled me in the ballet school."

"It is strange that I had forgotten so much of this. All those years and I never told you."

Christine rested her head on Erik's shoulder as he clasped her tightly. Daaé did not serve her well after her mother's death but his fatherly actions at the end set into motion this present embrace. He, of all people, knew what it was like to be uncertain of one's next meal or place of rest. It crushed his heart that Christine endured a single moment of depravation.

"Father did not send you, Erik but I'm glad you came anyway. You were more than my Angel of Music. You have been and are now my Guardian Angel when my father could not…"

The look on her face, the sound of her voice—it was as if ten year had been stripped away, leaving the vulnerable child who cried for her father and an angel. Memories had driven his strong lady back to that place. Tightening his jaw, he swore silently that she would never again feel unguarded.

Her soft breathing fluttering against his neck was the only sound he could hear in the quiet of the dingy bare kitchen. The _hôtel_ in Rouen would wait.

§

Madeleine wrestled with both joy and trepidation as her son handed her down from the carriage. How he had changed! Her light-hearted boy had changed, from his shorn locks to his restrained greeting. _God help her, how was she to tell him._

In contrast, his father regarded him with resigned stoicism. His son would be wounded, as if he had not already been so. Few words were exchanged in America but then none needed to be. The Comte suggested all three retire to the salon, signaling the footman to bring wine, troubled that his normally audacious wife seemed near to collapse.

Taking his glass, Michel examined its contents as if hoping for a magical potion to take it all away. Finding none, he turned to his son, "Raoul, your mother and I wish to speak to you about Mlle. Daaé and a person you know as the "Phantom"."

Raoul set his glass down on the side table with a crash. "Father, you mean someone I knew. He cannot possibly be alive."

Blanching at his child's twisted face, Michel replied. "No, my son, I chose the proper tense."


	18. Chapter 18

**All I Want Is Freedom**

"You betrayed me!" Raoul turned away from his mother, flinging the Baccarat wineglass and its contents against the back of the library fireplace. Its momentary flare-up punctuated the explosive atmosphere of the room. Swerving to his father, he roared, "And you, Sir, made a bargain with the devil's father!"

Madeleine looked down at her shaking hands, trying to collect her wits in light of his accusations. Her husband, to her immense surprise, did not cower under the attack. Rather, he seemed uncharacteristically irritated.

"Raoul, I will excuse your outburst as the handiwork of youth and emotional duress. Still, you need understand that one does not bargain with dying men—one simply does what they ask—especially when family honor is at stake."

Having no answer he could accept, Raoul turned back to his mother, "There was no family honor dictating your actions, Madame. You were free to act on your own conscience, knowing what Christine meant to me. To give her over to that madman—how could you?"

Madeleine bit her lip at his reproach. _Could he understand?_

"Raoul, I did act on my own conscience. I could tell you she loves him above all men and that he would die rather than harm her, but you are not able to hear those words _yet_."

Walking up to him, she attempted to stroke his cheek only to have him sullenly jerk away. Her hand slowly fell back to her side in dejection as she attempted to reason with what was, for her, uncharacteristic humility.

"As a little boy, you loved the Bible stories from the lectionary at Mass, particularly the ones about the battles and miracles of the Old Testament. Remember the poor man and his lamb. _Would you do this to him_?"

The room grew quiet as if all of the air had been displaced by a merciless vacuum, leaving only the faint tick of the mantle clock. Raoul starred at his mother in comprehension and defiant wretchedness.

Hurriedly mumbling, "By your leave," he squared his shoulder with de Chagny pride and exited the room.

Michel gazed at Madeleine's stricken face with bewilderment. "My dear, I will admit my Bible scholarship pales in comparison to yours. A poor man and his lamb?"

She walked over to a library shelf and pulled out a copy of the _De Saci _translation of the Vulgate Bible, kept hidden from the curious eyes of the parish priest. Leafing though its pages led her to the answer he requested.

"Michel, do you recall when the prophet Nathan reproached King David for consorting with Bathsheba after David arranged the death of her husband, Uriah the Hittite?" She placed her finger on the passage for him to read.

_And the Lord sent Nathan to David: and when he was come to him, he said to him: There were two men in one city, the one rich, and the other poor._

_The rich man had exceeding many sheep and oxen._

_But the poor man had nothing at all but one little ewe lamb, which he had bought and nourished up, and which had grown up in his house together with his children, eating of his bread, and drinking of his cup, and sleeping in his bosom: and it was unto him as a daughter._

_And when a certain stranger was come to the rich man, he spared to take of his own sheep and oxen, to make a feast for that stranger, who was come to him, but took the poor man's ewe, and dressed it for the man that was come to him._

_And David's anger being exceedingly kindled against that man, he said to Nathan: As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this is a child of death._

_He shall restore the ewe fourfold, because he did this thing, and had no pity._

_And Nathan said to David: Thou art the man._

§

As she absently touched her mother's gold Algerian love-knot brooch at her throat, Christine drew in a slight breath and gestured Mme. Dumont to be seated. Her choice of the unadorned watered silk gown with its high collar and old-fashioned bell sleeves had been chosen to serve two purposes—to not appear ostentatious at her introduction to the village during Morning Mass and to make her official tour of the chateau less encumbered by a more elaborate Parisian frock. Only its color, a brilliant amethyst, though covered with a sensible green pantelot for the trip to the church, threatened to undo her sensible intentions. Erik said she looked like a beautiful violet which had risked the chill of winter to bloom early.

The outing had gone well enough. The staff had not been informed of their plans while Père Maillard had obviously instructed his housekeeper to remain silent. Still, it could not help but be noted by the few in attendance at the service and the citizens about their duties in the town that M. de Carpentier was escorting his betrothed to church. News had traveled fast since his return from Paris.

Père Maillard was pleasant enough. It was obvious that he and Erik shared a strong bond. Moreover, it was just as obvious that he was studying her intently.

At breakfast, Mme. Camier clucked about like a stout little French hen, urging more croissants and brioche with fresh butter and variety of jellies and jams upon the hapless couple, constantly refilling her _café-au-lait_ and his strong black coffee. Her actions put Christine a good deal in mind of Carlotta's _maman_, except that Mme. Camier appeared too mindful of her dignity as the _presbytère_ housekeeper ever to overindulge in spirits. Perhaps that same dignity prompted the good housekeeper to serve the _café-au-lait_ in a refined coffee cup instead of the usual bowl for her honored guests. The juxtaposition left Christine with a fond wistfulness for those early morning forays with Meg to the _Café de l'Opera_ adjoining the Populaire, both dunking their fresh baked rolls into the milky brew and giggling at the mess they inevitably created.

§

Attentive to the duty at hand, she motioned Mme Dumont to be seated in a nearby chair in the morning room. Erik had signified that this was to be her office to conduct household affairs, handily connected to the library through a pocket door. It delighted her that, when he was not in the music room, he would be a few steps away during the day. Moreover, the sunny coziness of its white and yellow décor was unpretentiously agreeable in comparison to the grandness of the great hall and the other rooms; only the green salon felt as comfortable. Looking up from her delicately feminine desk, she addressed the housekeeper.

"Mme. Dumont, I wish to commend you on the training of the staff. All have performed their duties well. Suzanne, particularly, has been of great assistance to me though I understand she has no formal training as a lady's maid. Let us begin our tour. I wish to see everything."

Christine chose her words carefully, balancing a proper amount of praise that did not dissolve into unseemly informality with a graceful posture of dignity. She knew she was young but the Comtesse would expect her to take command as mistress. Part of that, in private of course, was gently forbidding Erik to accompany them. It was obvious that the servants were intimidated by his presence; as mistress she needed to work out her own relationship with them irrespective of him. In any case, after their marriage, the staff would answer more to her.

Fortunately, his new gift for her in the green salon provided just the right element of diversion.

Mme. Dumont unbent slightly at her gentle praise. This young lady was no arrogant noblewoman, always in need of proving her superiority. Neither was she excessively familiar like some _bourgeois_ upstart.

"By your leave, Mademoiselle Daaé, we will descend the servants' stairway and begin with a tour of the kitchen."

§

"Mam'selle, I cannot praise enough the thoughtfulness Monsieur has put into the design and equipping of this kitchen. There is surely no finer one in France, even without gas lines." Mme. Gobert's jolly expression turned rosy at Mme. Dumont's sharp glance. Perhaps, she had spoken too familiarly to the petite mademoiselle but she could not contain her pride in her domain.

Christine glance at the well laid out kitchen with its hot water tank and beautifully appointed cookstove. It made the one at the Giry's look shabby in comparison. She wondered what Mmes. Dumont and Gobert would think if she told them that she was quite capable of handling the kitchen duties. Probably they would not believe her.

"Mme. Gobert, this is beyond a doubt a fine kitchen and I will never find it tiresome if you wish to praise M. de Carpentier's talents."

The two older ladies exchanged brief knowing glances. It would seem that Suzanne and Alice were not exaggerating—the petite mademoiselle indeed had tender feelings for Monsieur.

Emboldened, Mme. Gobert jerked her chin at Mme. Dumont and continued the tour.

"Monsieur's real genius rests in his design of the larders. He had two constructed. One is at cellar temperature and the other is an indoor icehouse of the most ingenious design. Part of this room has a deep layer of coarse gravel over which blocks of ice are stacked on half-meter tall wooden pallets. There is no need for drainage pipes because the water seeps the wooden slats slowly into the gravel. In fact, the melting is very slow due to massive stone walls and thick cork ceiling. A chute allows delivery of fresh ice blocks from the outside of the chateau and one short wall is shelved and used for storage of meat, dairy, and other perishables. I am so fortunate to need not step a foot outside for ice or chilled foodstuffs."

Christine allowed Mme. Gobert to babble on in enthusiasm as she walked through the structures. Erik's genius was evident in every detail.

Spying an opening in the cook's effusive prattle, Mme. Dumont interjected.

"Mlle. Daaé, let us continue the tour with an inspection of the servants' quarters on the attic floor after visiting the wine cellar. If you have any particular questions about it, Perrot will be most willing to oblige you. Monsieur takes great pride in his inventory." Truth be told, Mme. Dumont ears were weary of Mme. Gobert's eagerness and more than a little concerned at the petite mademoiselle's reserve. She made few comments, leaving much open to speculation.

§

Mme. Dumont opened the doors to the servants' chambers for Christine to inspect. It had been her initial reaction to have the servants put away personal belongings before the inspection but Mlle. Daaé would find out eventually that Monsieur had insisted on the very unusual liberty of allowing them to display these in their chambers as long as the rooms were kept clean and in good order.

As Christine raised her eyebrows in surprise, Mme Dumont stumbled over an explanation.

"It is unusual to see personal effects about but Monsieur insisted…"

Taking pity on the woman, Christine interrupted, "Monsieur does not always adhere to social protocol, and in this case I agree with him totally. Servants need their rest and can better realize that in comforting surroundings."

Mme. Dumont looked down in confusion and wondered if Mlle. Daaé was a Republican.

"Very well, Mademoiselle. The floor beneath us is unfinished and runs the length of the chateau. Monsieur has not indicated his plans for it. If you wish, we may look in but it is very bare. Below it are the bedchambers. You are familiar with yours and the other ladies but may wish to see the others."

"Mme. Dumont, I will forgo touring the unfinished third level until I have conversed with M. de Carpentier over the matter but I do wish to see the rest of the bedchambers."

It was no surprise to Christine that each of the rooms was beautifully appointed. As usual, Erik's taste was impeccable and it showed in every detail, from the patina of the elegant furniture to the richness of the fabrics. As they continued down the hall towards the music room, Mme. Dumont opened an unfinished bedchamber, completely bare.

"Monsieur never completed this room, obviously reserving it for the lady of the house. I have compiled a folder of its dimensions. He wishes you to select its furnishings to be shipped here and have the bills sent to his Parisian _avocat_, whose name and address are also in the folder."

Christine look around, already envisioning it appearance. She would decorate it in forest green and cream with Louis Philippe furniture. A plain, old-fashioned choice to be sure but it suited her unfussy Swedish temperament. Walking the perimeter of the room, she opened one door to reveal a sizeable dressing room. As she put her hand on another doorknob to the right of it, Mme Dumont tactfully cleared her throat.

"Mademoiselle, that is Monsieur's bathroom."

Christine dropped her hand and then as quickly turned the knob. This was to be her bathroom as well, and she would not be a simpering demoiselle about it.

It was larger than the other bathrooms, pristinely tiled in white with an oversized marble tub. _Of course_, she thought, _he is taller than most Frenchmen. I wonder if two people could fit…_, halting her thoughts before they led to a memorable confessional. Obviously, the opposing door led into his bedchamber. Steeling herself against Mme. Dumont's disapprobation, she entered.

The room was Erik, with its heavy masculine furniture and rich brocades and velvets in a claret shade of red. She smiled at her portrait on his bed stand. The bed was huge with its imposing canopy perched on top of intricately carved mahogany columns.

_Two people could certainly fit in it with ample room to spare_.

Giggling in sheepish resignation at her upcoming penance, she smoothed the embroidered velvet bedcover with her hand, impulsively wishing to fling herself upon it and bury her nose in his scent. _Best just tell the priest" impure thoughts" and not elaborate on the circumstances._

Mme. Dumont had elected to remain in her unfinished bedchamber for which she was grateful. As she leaned her forehead against the carved bedposts, she wrestled with her inner thoughts. Being with Erik was her greatest joy but it did not blind her to the fact that she did not have access to some of the brooding secrets yet disquieting his soul that were not wholly cleared by his embracing of the Church. Around her, his features would soften and relax but occasionally she would glance something that told her that his thoughts were troubled. She had not pressed, hopefully not out of a lack of courage, but out of faith that he would open to her in his time. Still, this bed reminded her that it was most likely where she would share her greatest secret with him—the secret of her body.

She hoped that no other secrets would disturb that act.

§

Mme. Camier basked in the warmth of the well-appointed kitchen at the chateau, enjoying a soothing cup of tea with Mme. Gobert before returning to the _presbytère_ to attend to Père Maillard's lunch. The ostensible reason for the visit was to deliver several jars of jellies but the real reason was to find out as much as possible about Mlle. Daaé.

The news of M. de Carpentier's impending nuptials had spread like wildfire through Bezancourt after Mme. Dumont's announcement to the staff. Furthermore, this morning she had the privilege of serving Monsieur and the petite mademoiselle breakfast after Morning Mass. Thus the excuse for the visit—Mademoiselle had expressed her appreciation of Mme. Camier's skill at jelly making.

Mme. Gobert sniffed at the colorful jars but kept her opinion to herself. Mademoiselle had not tasted Mme. Dumont's preserves, as the _jeunne fille_ had just arrived yesterday. Still, she was bursting with news and suspected Mme. Camier might have more to add. The kitchen was quiet—no servants about poking about the cook pots. They had been driven away due to the excitement in the green salon. A new piano had been delivered by train from Paris that morning and Monsieur was arguing with, or rather instructing the _magasin_ representative accompanying the purchase. The representative was insistent that he was bound by orders from his superiors to supply the tuning. Monsieur thought otherwise. After a few well-chosen words from their master, the representative left in unseemly haste. Later, Jean-Louis would report that he was particularly unnerved to hear Mlle. Daaé mildly chasten Monsieur for intimidating the hapless man between her bursts of laughter at his stubbornness. Surprising, Monsieur took no umbrage but laughed with her and continued tuning the piano with his personal instruments.

§

The intense pounding of keys alerted Christine to Erik's continued presence in the green salon, bringing a smile to her face. He was nearly as obstinate as she, but the piano would be beautifully tuned when he was finished. Turning to Mme. Dumont at the foot of the stairs of the great hall, she offered.

"Thank you for your assistance. I now have confidence that the chateau is in the most capable of hands. Please extend my appreciation to M. Perrot and the rest of the staff for their fine efforts. I will attend M. de Carpentier now."

The two women looked at each other with new understanding. Mme. Dumont realized the _jeunne fille_ was solely concerned with Monsieur's wellbeing as far as household affairs were concerned. Christine was cognizant that Dumont took her responsibilities seriously and with discretion. Erik would not know she had been in his bedchamber.

As he sat at the piano wiping his hands on his handkerchief, she playfully danced over to him sidestepping the mutes and hammers on the floor in order to wrap her arms around his shoulders and drop a kiss on the top of his head. The intensity of his face, belied by the casualness of his open collar and vest, was broken by her welcome intrusion.

"Christine, I believe I am finished. Please sit and play while I listen."

"Erik, you have finished already? The tuner at the Populaire takes much longer."

"Yes, I know. His age coupled with his loss of hearing in the lower registers is slowing him. Sometimes at night, I would visit the rehearsal halls and retune them. It is an advantage to have perfect pitch."

Sliding beside him, she made a face and quipped, "I believe we will need a longer bench if we continue to insist on sitting beside each other."

Quick to parry her witticism he rejoined, "That could be arranged."

For that, he earned one last naughty look as she permitted herself to be carried away by one of her favorite Liszt pieces.

§

"Of what are you thinking, Christine?" He had seen the look on her face so often when she had not been aware of his presence—a look of introspection so intense that it would raise the slight dimple above her right brow. It was her Swedish look as he had come to think of it. Seated at the bench of the new piano, she seems lost in the strains of _Liebestraume_, her fingers sliding pensively along the keys while he listened for pitch and tone. Her choice was so appropriate—"dreams of love". As the last chord dissipated, she looked up at him and took his hand to hold it to her cheek.

"This is my dream of love and I am afraid I might waken. Do you realize how impossible all of this is? In a theater bursting with grandeur and musical perfection, you heard a little girl, all matchstick arms and legs with hair that went everywhere but where it should. Why me? You heard the best voices in the world on that stage yet you singled me out."

"Beloved, you were not the only one to hear songs in your head."

Christine bowed her head toward the keyboard in shame at his reply. Her words to Raoul in the chapel had cut through walls of stone into his heart.

"I have heard hundreds of voices but yours was the only one that had always been in my dreams from my earliest memory."

Slipping closer to her, he added, "More than that, blessedly, you heard me. My grateful response? To twist your gift with the notion of an Angel of Music, compelling you to serve me in pride and self-interest when in fact I needed you to love me. Sadly, it took a another season in Hell for me to realize that needing you to love me was not the same as sharing one love with me."

"But the hurt we brought upon each other…" Erik covered her lips with his forefinger.

"De Rochefoucauld appeals to the cynic in me but even a cynic can blindly utter a profundity in the midst of his usual nonsense—_in love you often doubt what you most believe_. "

Pushing his hand down, she remonstrated, "But I still doubted and my doubt hurt you."

"And I hurt you. Christine, did you retain your knowledge of Latin?"

She stared at him in confusion. "Well enough, but my Italian is better."

"Then translate for me—_Amoris_ _vulnus idem sanat, qui facit_."

He remembered the look on her face from her childhood, the one where she would carefully think though a problem, a question, perhaps fearing the blunder of answering incorrectly. It both charmed and saddened him a bit.

"It means—it means 'the_ wounds of love can only be healed,_ mmm,_ by the one who made them'_."

"Could the inverse also be true? If we did not love each other then how was it possible we could feel so wounded with each other?"

Grasping her shoulders gently, he sighed regrettably at need to convey even more.

"Still, love's wounds were mere scratches in comparison to the bleeding gashes in my soul. The knives of others and my own choices inflicted those. Your kisses merely turned the key in the prison door to give me the alternative of staying forever caged or walking out. For a moment, I may have wished for the cup to pass from me, for you to stay with me, but that would have meant that I had passed the cup from my lips to yours. In that cup was a draught of the bitterest poison; I know because I had sipped from it often enough. Of what worth was my life if I was given a box seat to painfully witness the likelihood of your destruction?"

Her eyes darkened with grief at the memory of that night. With a bowed head and in a choking voice she whispered, "If I had had more faith I could have stayed…"

"Christine, you may never understand that I not only cherish you for what you did do but for what you wished you could do. Sometimes we forget that in serving each other and God that He gave us an incredible will to survive. It must be to some purpose."

"But you could not be the only one making sacrifices. I had to learn to sacrifice my pride, my misanthrophy, my lack of conscience. I would carry my own cross, not risk crushing you slender shoulders with it."

At his last words, she dared raise her head again. Its slight tilt with glowing eyes and radiant smile spokes volumes.

_You understood. Thank you._

Kissing her forehead, he drew back and observed, "You smile so much at me now, it seems like a gift from Heaven. That is the part of you I never knew as your Angel of Music, to my regret. With me you were the serious little student, hanging on her Angel's every word, eager to please for the most part. I still haven't forgotten the Greek lessons, though."

Christine grimaced comically in remembrance. "Nor have I. But I felt my reasons were sound for refusing and I was sure I could convince you. Opera singers do not need to know Greek. Latin was acceptable so I might understand the Mass and of course, it would help my Italian. I thought I was being very practical."

"Of course you did, _ma mie_. Still, I knew while you were ever so serious with me, you and Meg Giry were carrying on a reign of terror with some of the older _coryphees_. No doubt you nearly missed your rehearsel _and_ your audition for _Hannibal_ because you and Meg were scheming up in the flies."

"How did you know... of course, you knew, didn't you? A senior member of the _corps_ was bullying one of the brats. Meg and I had begged some fabric scraps from one of the seamtresses and were fashioning a cloth rat to put in her dormitory bed. We hid it in a cubby-hole in the flies until we could finish it."

She smiled in memory of her childhood, absently running her fingers along the piped seams in her dress.

"But now I am to be a wife and the mistress of a grand house and ought to be mindful of my position."

"_Christine Annalina Brigitta_ _Daaé, soon to be Christine de Carpentier, don't you dare."_

The ferocity of his tone, the icy fire in his eyes took her aback. She had not heard him raise his voice since that night in the lair.

"I do not want a prim-and-proper little wife who always does the right thing, always says the right thing, making me conscious of when I do not. I believe I would go madder than I already am. I want a wife who smiles too much, particularly at me. I want a wife who is not afraid to throw her heart over the highest fence even if she takes a tumble in the effort. I want a wife who knows what drives my spirit—the need to create. I want her to want to create with me—whether it is music or babes or a life of grace."

"My Angel, I want you to put a cloth rat in my bed whether I deserve it or not."

An old memory came to her, one of a _grand jeté_ that had gone badly during rehearsal. As her body pounded the hardwood floor, she had a sense of all of the air leaving her body in a gigantic whoosh. That sensation had returned, as she understood his words. But her lungs filled with the purest of oxygen as she breathed in, _truly_ understanding his words. _All I want is freedom._ Freedom with the crutches of fear kicked from beneath it. He had given her permission, _no_, he had dared her to take that freedom. Raoul had promised it, too, but he had promised what he could not offer. _He had retrieved her red scarf but he could not give her the toy sailboat at Perros-Guirec._ Suddenly it all made sense.

Leaning her forehead against his cheek, she promised, "I will only put that rat in your bed if you deserve it."

§

So intent were they in their embrace they almost did not hear Jean-Louis' discreet cough. At Erik's nod, he hastened into the salon, proffering a silver salver.

"Monsieur, I have two letters delivered from the Chateau de Chagny. One is addressed to you and the other to Mlle. Daaé."

Taking them, Erik offered Christine hers, dimissing Jean-Louis with a wave. He recognized Madeleine's handwriting. _What the devil and why a letter to Christine, also?_

Opening it, he read her message with ever-increasing foreboding.

_My dear Erik,_

_Out of our fond friendship, I am asking that you attend the Chateau de Chagny tomorrow at ten o'clock in the morning by request of my husband. He has news of your family which is of a startling nature. I realize that you have severed all connection with them and wish no further reminders but this new information will put a different perspective on your earlier assumptions._

_I regret I cannot go into further detail as this is much too complex to explain in a letter. I also regret that Raoul will be in attendance; I assure you he has no more desire to see you than you him. Still, his presence is vital as to what is to be revealed. You swore to me that you would not kill him. I warned you my expectations would be higher than that._

_My letter to Christine is to beg her attendance. I realize you are fiercely protective of her but do not rob her of the opportunity to serve you._

_My friend, please remember that as long as I have known you, I have always acted in your best interests. That has not changed._

_I remain,_

_Madeleine, Comtesse de Chagny_

Meanwhile, Christine read the few short sentences addressed to her.

_Dearest Christine,_

_Soon Erik will reveal the contents of his letter. I ask you be by his side in this as you are in all things, no matter how painful. He will need your strength and your love. You still have not completed the task of replacing the past._

_Affectionately,_

_Madeleine, Comtesse de Chagny_

As he glance at her after finishing his letter, he saw that she had folded hers up and put it in her skirt pocket. Uncertainly, she asked, "What did she write you?"

Handing her the letter, he waited for her to finish. As her face paled to an impossible shade of white, he stepped forward lest she faint. _Damnation, he would not subject her to that boy's presence. _Her admission on their first horseback ride had finally persuaded him of her commitment to him and him alone as his lover, but de Changy still had the ability to cut up her peace.

At his cat-like movement towards her, she waved away his assistance saying, "No, Erik, I am well. I suppose these past few days I have built a dream world in which Raoul does not exist, but he does and I must face that reality. We will both go."

"Christine, you need not go. For that matter neither do I. I put my parents behind me years ago, deliberately choosing never to make contact, even to finding out if they are still alive. Madeleine knows this. Why is she stirring up old ghosts?"

Christine grasped each of his clinched fists in turn, massaging them into a semblance of tranquility

"Because it is important. Otherwise, she would not have asked. I trust Madame. More to the point you, who trust few people, trust her."

At her gentle touch, he allowed his body to unstiffen.

"Yes, I suppose. Hopefully, the matter will be resolve in short order. Tomorrow we celebrate the Twelfth Night. Pere Maillard and Mme. Camier are expecting my house party to join them at the _presbytère_ for _Gallette du Roi_ and cider after Midnight Mass."

She nodded in recollection. The staff was being given the evening off to celebrate in the servants' hall with their own cake.

_How strange. To journey to the de Chagny chateau on the day that celebrates the arrival of the Three Kings to the birthplace of Christ._ She felt a shiver of apprehension crawl up her spine.

§

Christine sighed in relief as the carriage stopped in front of the chateau. Over the past twenty-four hours, Erik's disposition had turned from that of the devoted lover and genial host to one more closely resembling a brooding hedgehog. His curt behavior with the servants and guests brought to the fore her largely untested diplomatic skills, throwing her prematurely into the stance of mistress in order to maintain calm and routine in the face of Erik's agitation.

When she told Mme. Giry that it concerned news of his parents, she nodded with old understanding, promising to soothe Meg's ruffled feathers. It was arranged that Perrot would escort them to Rouen for sightseeing and shopping while Erik and she were at the de Changy chateau.

Even now, he took command, his tall figure shrouded in the darkness of his cape, waving away the footman's offer of assistance for her as if to make it clear in no uncertain terms that she was no longer under the aegis of the House of de Chagny. She was of _his_ House.

She wondered if, had he been able, would he have enveloped her inside that cape in order to hide her from them. As she took his hand to alight from the carriage, she willed him to look at the plea in her eyes. Softening, he bent down and whispered, "My Angel, please forgive my churlish behavior; there are reasons for it but no excuse for it. I swear I will make it right to all when we return."

As Erik handed his hat, cape, and gloves to the butler, she took in the lavish foyer, remembering that her first view of it had been as a half-crazed runaway bride who was beyond comprehending the Comtesse's well-meant actions. The butler gave her wrap to a maid and escorted them to the main salon, formally announcing "Mlle. Daae and M. de Carpentier".

Her first glance was inevidabley drawn to Raoul, leaving her barely able to quell her shock. He looked so much older, closer in age to Erik, for whom love had erased years. His normally gentle eyes were hard as sapphires, swiftly accessing her and settling on Erik. Erik glanced at him, heeding him no more than he would an annoying gnat, choosing instead to ignore his hosts and propel her across the room to an older gentleman in a cardinal's simar. Bowing to kiss his ring, Erik presented Christine to the Cardinal de Bonnechose as she in turn took his hand. The Comtesse invited all to be seated with Erik choosing a divan so that he and Christine might present a united front. It was now that Christine was able to settle her attention on the dignified man whose stare never wavered from Erik face. Barely able to suppress a gasp, she studied the features of who must undoubtedly be Raoul's father, Michel de Chagny, wondering if she had lost her mind. _Was she the only one in the room who saw it?_

Sitting proud and erect, the Comte interrupted the Comtesse's attempt to conclude the proper introductions, breaking long enough from his intent concentration on Erik to address him. "Monsieur, this conversation had been over thirty years in the coming so I will delay it no longer. _That is the de Carpentier way._ Allow me to introduce myself. I am Michel Antoine Raoul de Carpentier de Chagny, the second Comte de Chagny. You, sir, are the son of Francois Philippe Maurice de Carpentier de Chagny, the first Comte de Chagny, eleventh Baron de Carpentier, and my uncle, the brother of my father. We are cousins of the first degree."

"Your father died in service to the current Emperor and Empress. Your mother, Denise Eugènie Angele, Baronne de Carpentier, _nee_ de Meuse, died of a broken heart."

"You died approximately one month after you were born."


	19. Chapter 19

**Come See The Devil's Child**

It started as a deep low rumble in his chest, building momentum until it became something that terrifyingly resembled a laugh in its dark beauty. What others in the room heard with their ears, Christine Daaé heard with that which was internally attuned to his emotions.

This was not going well.

"My dear Comte, _you have been misinformed_. My parents are Charles and Emma de Carpentier. Someone is playing you the fool." Erik's mocking demeanor sent Christine's memory to another time, that time in the lair when he had emotionally run to the edge, preparing to take a leap into an unforgiving abyss. In her very marrow she knew he believe Michel at once but could not accept it. To do so would undo too many facades.

She inconspicuously slid nearer to him on the divan.

With a vague shrug Michel continued. "Yes, those persons raised you but you are not their natural son. Your father, Francois de Carpentier, with the bribe of a handsome financial arrangement, gave you to their care. They would be at this interview except that as final payment for their services they were settled in Quebec after your disappearance at age six. Knowing him, I suspect their removal from France was at this point as much due to his fury over their carelessness than any fear of disclosure. Men did not willingly cross Francois in a rage."

Erik thinned his lips just short of a snarl. "If what you say is true, then why would he care if I had disappeared? Moreover, where was his wife, _my mother as you call her_, in this?

Accepting a glass of wine from the footman, Michel swirled its contents as he contemplated his next words. "In order to answer that question, I must answer the ones you have not asked. You story starts before you were born, when there was still a chance that I would have married your mother and been your father."

§

"You could say that Denise de Meuse and I were childhood sweethearts. My father's _hôtel_ was located quite near theirs in the Fauboug-St. Germain. It was always surprising to me that my parents, being the staunch _Légitimistes _they were, allowed interaction with the Baron de Meuse's brood, as the Baron was an _Orléaniste _and loyal supporter of Louis-Philippe, more likely due to the King's prodigious support of the arts. In any case, the de Meuse's were always an artistic rather than political lot, constantly drawn to music, painting, and literature. Denise was the oldest child and by far the most talented, the apple of her father's eye. Her skill at the piano was extraordinary, matched by a unrivaled singing voice."

"Due to the attachments created in Paris, I was invited to spend time at their estate in Argenteuil. Yes, those times spent at their chateau were magical. The de Meuse's viewed the world through a completely different set of lenses, and would occasionally allow me a glance, taking compassion on my own plodding efforts to master the keyboard as well as compose an ode, or draw a recognizable figure on a sketchpad. I played the fool good-naturedly, happy just to be around that sliver of moonbeam known as Denise. As far as I was concerned our future was planned; we would marry when we were grown up and raise a family of aristocratic bohemians."

"But as we grew older I sensed that Denise was drifting away from me. When she looked at me, it was only in friendship or with brotherly love. When she looked away, I felt her essence was searching for something. What my young heart did not wish to realize was that she was searching for _someone_, and that someone was not to be me."

"She did not have long to wait. The de Meuse's were great favorites of Louis-Philippe and he would on occasion invite them to the Trianon for intimate gatherings not possible at Versailles. The King was particularly fond of the oldest daughter's vocal skills and would always request the favor of a performance. She insisted that I attend with the family, to keep her company in the face of so many illustrious artists. It would be the last time she made that request."

"That evening the salon was filled with artists, musicians, writers, all basking in the glory of finally having a monarch who appreciated them. I also saw my uncle among their number who was the last person who would care if the King appreciated him or not."

"Francois, Baron de Carpentier, was forty-three years of age, unmarried and seemingly destined to remain that way. My father saw him infrequently and preferred it that way. Francois was of a very different temperament from his brother; he was proud, controlling, and in possession of the devil's own temper which he had learned to check in his maturity. His vocation as a renowned architect was accepted by the aristocratic rules governing his title. Not that it mattered; if he had wanted to dig ditches, he would have ignored their rules anyway."

"That night he was trying to catch the King's ear about a proposal for renovating Paris. Francois never lacked in either ambition or audacity, though I could mentally picture him holding his nose to be forced to petition a former _schoolteacher_, with his squat pear-shaped figure and ridiculous brown wig. My uncle's commissions were beginning to bore him; he longed for a project that would leave his permanent mark upon the world."

"Instead that night his ear was caught."

"Denise was charmingly displayed at the piano, singing and playing _Laissez-Moi Planter Le Mai_, a haunting folk number she sang often as a child. It was just the sort of tune that the King, with his unsophisticated _bourgeois_ taste adored, but when Denise sang, its simple melody took wings."

"Francois abandoned his attempts at conversation with His Majesty, drawn to the piano like a bee to a newly opened flower. I recall few times when Denise looked more beautiful, dressed in white, her glorious chestnut hair bound with white roses, its thick waves coaxed into ringlets about her face, her pale blue eyes glowing with anticipation."

Rising from his chair, Michel walked around the divan and gathered two portrait frames leaned against the wall. Removing their dust covers, he propped them against the piano case.

"These were painted shortly after your parents' marriage. Perhaps seeing their faces will give you a better sense of their story and yours."

Erik quietly rose and crossed the room to the piano. The man in the portrait looked younger than his age would imply, his dark straight hair and emphatic brows with no hint of silver. Clear deep-set eyes of grey-green were set above a pronounced aquiline nose and sensually chiseled lips positioned over a cleft chin. Holding his arm extended with his left palm outstretched in front of it, Erik saw _half_ of his face.

However, no one else saw his motion; instead all eyes were draw to Christine's softly whispered, "Pardon me." She had hurriedly stripped off her gloves and dropped them to the floor as a diversionary tactic. Erik's naturally instinctive gesture _to know_ would not be fodder for their curiosity or their sympathy if she had any say in it; too much of his life had already been spent on display. At her words, he dropped his hand, looking back at her as she caught his eyes, nodding an imperceptible yes at his realization.

The woman was quite young, perhaps Christine's age. Her beautiful oval face with its delicately arched brows, short straight nose, and cupid's-bow lips was dominated by almond-shaped eyes of an impossible shade of silver-blue—the color of his. All of his life he had never seen anyone else with that particular hue of eye color, save himself, and now he was staring at it in another person—_his mother_.

He numbly returned to Christine's side. It startled him a bit when Michel continued his narrative.

"I had known for some time that even though we were both eighteen, Denise had grown far beyond me in years. Dreams of a shared future had been displaced by a yearning to treasure and protect her as a brother or well-beloved friend. It was just as well. That night Denise met her fate in the shape of my uncle, a cold unbending man twenty-five years her senior."

"More to the point, he met his fate. My father was dumbfounded that his older brother, always so careful and calculating, had grown a heart and lost it to a mere slip of a girl in her teens. But as head of the family, Francois was entitled to do as he pleased. Denise was another matter. Baron de Meuse was aghast that his pet would consider marrying a man his own age. Arguments raged back and forth; I dared not side against her for fear of losing her friendship and the ability to protect her should Francois revert back to form. Little did I know…"

"Denise showed an amazing stubbornness; she would have Francois or no other, threatening to live out her days in an Ursuline convent if denied. The thought of his favorite cloistered behind thick walls was all the convincing Baron de Meuse needed. He would adjust to the age difference; it was not totally unheard of in their circles for such a vast gulf to exist. No, as a good father he was more concerned about their temperamental differences. The two were as alike as cheese and chalk. But when she sang, Francois was transformed. Always a technically superior violinist in his own right, he began to instill a passion in his playing that was heretofore unknown. She would examine his sketches and architectural renditions, both arguing and agreeing with great passion. I never thought to see my uncle so animated or my dear friend so _complete_. "

"So they were married. Married in a ceremony with the King of the French in attendance. Married at St. Sulpice, whose dark funereal interior would foreshadow their life to come. I never felt comfortable in St. Suplice, preferring the more intimate St. Germain des Prés. Hundreds of years of incense and blessings could not make me forget it was built over a temple of Isis."

Cardinal de Bonnechose glared at the Comte for his last remark. He would speak to him later about it.

"Little did they know that those first two years of sunshine would be overtaken by shadow for the rest of their lives."

"Erik, by sheer happenstance I was present for your arrival in the world. Denise accouchement was not for another month and I wished to visit her before the household was consumed by the pandemonium of childbirth. That first day she was full of excitement about the baby, in spite of a nagging headache and tiredness. I ascribed it to her being so near to term."

"The next day the shadow moved."

"She awoke feverish, covered with dreadful lesions. Francois, in as close to a panic as I had ever seen him, sent for the village doctor and ordered his steward to, if necessary, drag their Parisian doctor to Fleury-sur-Andelle."

Erik, who had been staring at a point beyond Michel's head, snapped back to attention at the mention of the town.

"Of course you wouldn't know," Michel realized. "This chateau was once the property of your father. You were born here."

"I would see the room where I was born." Erik's frozen countenance brooked no argument.

"As you wish. Your mother was taken to that room when the cause of her symptoms was determined. Being somewhat remote, it provided the isolation for a proper sickbed and eventual lying-in. It has undergone considerable changes in over thirty years and would be hardly recognizable as your place of birth. If fact, I understand Mlle. Daaé…"

Madeleine leaned over to grab her husband's arm tightly but it was too late. Erik could feel Christine's trembling body and raspy breathing. Instinctively, he grabbed her still ungloved hand. It was a cold as ice. Raoul grabbed the arms of his chair, looking as if he could barely restrain himself from going to her. _I should feel pity for him_, Erik mused. _By Madeleine's report, he did his damnedest to keep her alive_.

Christine closed her eyes and held Erik's hand tightly. She had died in the room where he was born. Except that in some mysterious way, she had been born there, also.

"The village doctor confirmed that she had chicken pox, which was just making its rounds in the village at the time. We later believed that she had contracted it from a not yet symptomatic child attending Mass. Nevertheless, chicken pox was always known to be more severe in adults and no one knew what it portended for a woman in her condition. The Parisian doctor arrived the next day, conferred with the village doctor, sending word to his associate in Paris to check for any scholarly works on the subject. In the meantime, Denise grew paler and more tired and Francois grew more frantic. I would sit with her when he was too exhausted to do more, earning a degree of gratitude and trust from him. What he didn't know was that I would have cared for her if he had been Lucifer himself."

"In the meantime, I believe you had decided that enough was enough and entered the world a few weeks early. Denise went into labor on the fifth day, already exacerbating her weakened condition. Blessedly you did not tarry but arrived two hours after her first pain. The doctors had warned Francois to expect anything but he was not prepared for you. You were covered from head to toe with sores, but it was your face…"

"All that was recognizable of was pair of silver-blue eyes and a mop of dark hair. You face was a jumble of angry red blotches mainly concentrated on the right side. The doctors were concerned about the excessive amount of lesions but were hopeful that they would appropriately heal as they did in other children's cases. Denise did not care. She held you as if you were a precious china doll, cooing and singing to you, refusing a wet nurse even in her weakened condition. She did improved but you did not. While the lesions healed on your body, those on the right side of you face did not, instead becoming an infected mass. The doctor from Paris was recalled, giving Francois the verdict. That side of your face would be severely scarred for life, and it was likely that the aftermath of the pox would infect your brain, if not killing you, then leaving you an imbecile. Francois confided in me; he dared not tell Denise and endanger her recuperation. I found it hard to believe that a contagion would leave you mentally defective. You were such a bright newborn, your eyes following everyone in the room, reacting to every sound, in spite of what must have been extreme discomfort on your part. You were always feverishly moving in your bassinet, only content when Denise was holding you and attending to your needs. And you would fall into a blessed sleep when she sang to you."

"Francois arranged for an immediate baptism, numbly allowing Denise to choose your name and conscripting me for the position of your godfather. He and I had no idea how much longer you might live."

"Thankfully, your fever broke allowing your body to begin its healing. But the right side of your face coalesced into a maze of hideous scars and the doctor was as yet unsure of any damage to your mental faculties."

Erik felt as if his mask had slipped, exposing the wreck that was that side of his face. His life had been blighted by a silly childhood disease passed from some innocent child to his mother and then to him. The need to laugh hysterically was tempered by another revelation. _He would not pass this affliction of his face to his children._ Christine would never know the burden of carrying a child that looked like him because those circumstances would never be duplicated unless…

Even in company, she had not let go of his hand after the initial touch. Squeezing it tightly, she spoke in a low voice, as if reading his thoughts, "When I was five."

Michel looked sharply at abrupt drooping of Erik's shoulders and continued.

"As Denise was mending nicely and you were out of immediate danger, I quitted Fleury-sur-Andelle. Years later I learned the rest of the story from a dying man."

"Francois's life had been about perfection. He had the perfect wife and expected perfect children. You were not perfect, between the wreck of your face and threat to your intellect. How could you be his heir, the future Baron de Carpentier? With his usual cool efficiency, he made a decision that would end in tragedy for him, his beloved wife, and, I think, for you."

"Vast amounts of money crossed hands for both an ambitious country doctor, a village priest weighed down by the specter of a chronically ill mother in Belgium, and a distant kinsman who handled most of Francois' contracting work."

"The doctor removed you from your mother's arms, stating that you had contracted typhoid fever and must be moved to isolation at his residence in order for her to avoid exposure so soon after her own illness. After three days, the doctor sent word that you had died there and would be buried immediately in a closed coffin to prevent spread of the contagion. Normally, the authorities would request to see the body but the doctor and priest gave sworn avadavats that you had died and the authorities were in no hurry to risk their health. Your death was duly recorded in the town hall and _paroisse_ register. After a discreet interval, the village doctor moved to Switzerland to further his studies and the priest was transferred to a parish near Lille, closer to the Belgium border and his sick mother."

"The cousin, Charles de Carpentier and his wife Emma took you to Bolbec to be raised as their own child, giving Francois regular reports of your progress. He even visited you on rare occasions, thinking your care adequate. When it was obvious to him, that far from being an imbecile, you were extraordinarily mentally gifted, he questioned his decision. That is until Mme. de Carpentier removed your mask and revealed your face."

"He knew Denise would have spent her life trying to protect you and spend her life out in the process. Perhaps, she would have but instead she spent the rest of her life mourning her little son. For you see, the disease had silently inflamed her heart, leaving her permanently weakened. The doctors told Francois she was not to be excited and she was certainly to never have another child."

The former Denise would tolerate; the latter she would not. She was very clever. After a few years, she had fooled the doctor and Francois into believing that she had made a recovery. Your loss never left her and she was determined to have another child to erase some of the pain. But it was not to be. She and the child, a girl, died when she went into premature labor. Francois was devastated. All of his careful planning had come to a tragic end. There was no perfect wife, no perfect child. There was a broken man.

After some months, he broke out of his mourning to consider what was left of his life. What was left was you. And he knew that he would bring you back, even if it meant scandal and criminal prosecution. You were what remained of Denise. But it again was not to be. You had disappeared, it was thought, with a band of gypsies. Francois made inquires throughout western France but to no avail. The de Carpentiers were packed off to Quebec with sufficient funds and threats to insure their permanent silence.

"No, he would not find me," Erik spate out mirthlessly. The gypsies removed me to Seville, lest any _Gadje_ in France search for me. That is where I became fluent in Romany and Spanish. Afterwards, we traveled about Europe, coming back to France the spring following my ninth birthday."

Michel looked at him measuringly, "My son told me of your rescue by the worthy Mme. Giry. Francois would have never wished this upon you. I can only imagine…"

The beatings whose memory would remain permanently etched on his back, the threats, the starvation, the wretched cage that was only cleaned when he was on display—_Come see the Devil's child_…no one could imagine.

"You understand nothing."

"Perhaps, you are right," Michel admitted.

"Whatever the case, I came to feel great pity for Francois. Denise had brought him to life only to have her death and your disappearance from the face of the earth put the last nail in his coffin. Until the very end of his mortal life, he was a walking corpse."

"Yet he continued in his profession, gathering accolades across Europe, but still never forgetting his initial purpose the night he met Denise. Perhaps their intertwinement never allowed him to let go of the idea of a renovated Paris. In 1853, Comte de Persigny had just sacked Berger as _prefect_ of the Seine department due to Berger's hesitancy about the money outlays for the proposed renovation by the Emperor. This was Francois' opportunity. However, to his humiliation, he was bested by Georges-Eugène Haussmann, a career civil servant with training in law and music. I asked him about it but he just shrugged his resignation. De Persigny was a "self-appointed" nobleman, assuming a dormant family title. Napoleon III was the nephew of an upstart Corsican and the grandson of the upstart's wife from her first marriage. A member of the legitimate old nobility might not prove as accommodating to their fragile self-importance. Certainly, this was true of de Persigny."

"The destruction of the medieval city by the great North-South/East West crossing, started in 1854, was the beginning of the murmuring that continues today because of the national debt incurred. It was now 1857; De Persigny was no longer the minister of the interior and his Majesty remembered the applicant who was a renowned architect. The Emperor, in his wisdom, thought of balancing Haussmann's civic planning abilities with Francois' knowledge of historical design and construction. Between the two of them, perhaps there would be a way to preserve the best of Paris' architectural heritage, while controlling mounting expenditures."

"It was an uneasy alliance that never saw fruition."

"More interesting was the friendship that developed between the Emperor and you father. Francois was fifteen years his senior and of the old nobility. Napoleon was a Bonapartist but a socialist at heart. Perhaps it was because they both shared wide-ranging interests. As a result, Francois was not an infrequent visitor to the Élysée Palace, having moved to Paris to avoid the memories of Fleury-sur-Andelle."

"It was this unlikely friendship sealed your father's fate and left our Emperor evermore under obligation to Francois and his descendants."

"I can never forget that day. It was a clear cool day in mid-January. The year was 1858. Francois was accompanying the Emperor and Empress to the Populaire for an evening of Italian opera, never anticipating that they would be enacting their own Italian opera before the curtain ever rose. For destiny and the issue of Italian independence has thrown Felice Orsini and his three bombs of fulminate of mercury in their path. The first bomb landed in the midst of the horsemen in front of the carriage. The second bomb smashed the carriage glass, wounding the horses drawing it. The third bomb was making its way to the underside of the carriage except that Francois stopped it with his body, thus protecting the Royal occupants. The explosions ripped down the right side of his body. Though barely conscious before the ambulance could take him to _Hôtel-Dieu de Paris_, he insisted that the Napoleon and Eugènie attend the performance as if nothing had happened. Later, word was sent to the press that a policeman had been injured by the third bomb. The Emperor did not wish it known that a nobleman of an ancient family had been gravely injured."

"I am amazed he lived as long as he did; certainly, his doctors were. The blast had severely burned and damaged the right side of his body, causing the loss of sight in his right eye and necessitating the amputation of his right arm whose hand was responsible for so many beautiful architectural renditions. That side of his body was a mass of scars from the top his head downwards. Napoleon was beside himself with guilt, no doubt relieving some of it by conferring upon Francois the title of Comte de Chagny as your father lay in a hospital bed. When the doctors told him and me they could do no more, he defied them and insisted on being taken back to Fleury-sur-Andelle to die."

I made all of the arrangements for his return. He wanted to be with Denise, even though Denise had been dead nearly twenty years and her body was in the family plot on the estate. So I did my best to settle this morphine-addicted shell which once housed a man of great intellect and vitality into his final days. The next morning after we had arrived, he summoned me to his bedside to bargain with me.

"It had to be the morphine, otherwise how could such a tale be true. Now, I am not so sure. He told me that Denise had come to him the previous night to tell him of you, Erik. That you were alive and that I would find you. That many wrongs would be righted."

"Francois set his terms. As my father was now deceased, I would be the next Comte de Chagny for the remainder of my life, disassociating my family from the de Carpentier name as he felt had shamed it beyond repair. But his son, if found, would be heir to the title over my then nine-year-old son, who would remain the Vicomte de Chagny. The chateau at Fleury-sur-Andelle would remain in my family's possession for perpetuity. The remainder of his estate would remain in trust for his son. Barring his reappearance, it would pass to my heirs upon my death."

"He only lasted a few more days, days spent in confession and settling his affairs. I thought that death brought him peace but I rather think today did."

Though Christine could see Erik's beautifully erect posture beside her, she felt the slight tremor in his hand which she still clasped it tightly. _The sins of the father are visited upon the father_…

Erik spoke quietly in his exquisite voice, "How can you be so sure I am the son of Francois de Carpentier? Surely, I am not the only man in the world whose face is scarred."

"Francois considered that possibility, entrusting me with the secret of identifying you. You have a irregular birthmark on the back of your head covered by your hair. You may not even be aware of its existence but Francois and Denise were. If you will allow me", as Michel rose to approach, "we can settle this matter and end this speculation."

"And you may bloody well go to hell," Erik snarled, daring Michel to come any closer. "You will not touch me."

Michel sank back into his chair with dismay as Cardinal de Bonnechose intervened.

"Comte, there is no need for you to confirm its existence. I believe the word of a prince of the Church will satisfy the authorities. After all, I poured the baptismal water over his head. The mark is there."

De Bonnechose was not sure but he thought he saw a flicker of gratitude in Erik's icy stare.

"All of this will not come as a total shock to the Emperor. Francois had me write a letter to him, explaining his actions. The Emperor wrote back, giving his word that he and descendents would honor Francois' request. In fact nearly a year after the bombing, Napoleon created the _Conseil du Sceau, _to advise the sovereign on requests for grants, confirmations or recognition of titles with the final decision resting with the sovereign—certainly this case rests with the sovereign. I always felt a dying man's wish was behind that action."

"Francois did allow you a singular preference. He said that you, with the Emperor's assured approval, could choose your title. As the son of a Comte, you may be styled as Vicomte Erik de Chagny or take your second title, Erik, Baron de Carpentier. The choice is yours."

Christine quickly glanced at Raoul at the mention of Vicomte Erik de Chagny. _Could his eyes have grown any colder?_ So Raoul was a de Carpentier, becoming the Vicomte de Chagny just before she met him that summer at Perros-Guirec. Madeleine had mentioned a kinship but not that she had once been Mme. de Carpentier. Was this part of the bargain? _Oh, Blessed Virgin, does this mean I am to be Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny._ She suddenly felt very ill.

Erik looked at Raoul with a ghost of a superior smile, squeezed Christine's now trembling hand in understanding, and answered Michel.

"I choose the title of Baron de Carpentier. Its simplicity _pleases_ me."

"Very well. Francois thought you might also. You and I have much paperwork to go over but that can wait until another day. Do you have any other questions?"

"I have two. Do you know why my mother named me Erik?"

Michel smiled for the first time. "You were named after your grandfather, Baron de Meuse. His first name is Erik-Denis. The Erik has been passed down through generations. It would seem that during the Middle Ages a daughter of the house of de Meuse married a wealthy Swedish nobleman to repair the family fortunes. But before the Swede could convey his wife back to his native country, plague swept the land killing the family head, the de Meuse heir, and the newly wedded couple. Having no other relatives the Swede's estate went to the younger son who was now head of the family. He named his oldest son after his late brother-in-law, in gratitude for his unintentional generosity."

Erik was not sure but he thought he felt Christine trying to suppress a giggle at Michel's last sentence. Some of the tension fell out of his body.

Michel suddenly frowned in displeasure. "How forgetful of me. Part of you new responsibilities will be contacting the Baron and Baronne de Meuse. He is quite advanced in age but I understand he still enjoys tolerably good health, as does your grandmother. No doubt, in due course, a meeting will be arranged for you to meet your various aunts, uncles, and cousins."

The shock of Michel's admission threw Erik's mind into an unaccustomed blankness. Only the next question was able to escape the void. He would deal with the other in private.

"My second question is what opera?"

Michel raised his eyebrows in confusion. _Opera? What is he talking about? What kind of question was this after just learning about his mother's parents?_

Awareness hit him. Really, his cousin was quite _odd_.

"It was _William Tell_ by Rossini."

§

All sat in silence at Michel's last words, not knowing what to do next. Cardinal de Bonnechose cleared his throat and addressed Christine directly.

"Mlle. Daaé, due to the unusual nature of this discovery, I have apprised the Holy See of its particulars. In the course of my correspondence with the Holy Father, your name has been mentioned with an ensuing investigation, which is normal in these extraordinary cases. Please do not take offense."

You are of no small interest to the Swedish legation at the Vatican. Their Royal Family is interested in your father's connection to the Bernadotte family."


	20. Chapter 20

**We Have All Been Blind**

_How can she bear to be near him?_

As he battled the fury that threatened to rout him, the Vicomte de Chagny called forth the reserves of generations of de Carpentiers, willing his body to remain proud and erect in his chair across from them. The last few days had been hell with the brimstone smoldering even more intensely today. This murderer, this _thing_ was to inherit his father's title. He could endure that bit of kismetic legerdemain but what he could not endure was this interloper's objective to make her his Comtesse. What did it matter that de Carpentier blood just as surely flowed though this creature's veins as it did his own—all this fiend knew was the shedding of it. As for his lovely Christine, God have mercy on her, she had attached herself to this mask of death, unable or unwilling to see the peril. Better she had succumbed to the throes of fever than meet a worse fate in the offing.

_Others may admire the sleek veneer of urbanity on your oh-so-elegantly masked face but I yet see all the arrogance of the devil who lashed me against the portcullis. He pays me scant attention, his body poised in challenge, daring anyone to dispute his ownership of Christine. God, does she not understand?_

"Their Royal Family is interested in your father's connection to the Bernadotte family..." The Archbishop's last words derailed Raoul's train of hate, beguiling him to consider other avenues. _Christine has ties to the Swedish Royal family? Can I use this to my advantage?_

§

"Mademoiselle, do you know anything of your paternal grandmother?" Cardinal de Bonnechose leaned back in his high-backed chair, watchful for any signs of dissembling on her part. His tenure as a district attorney had provided him with more than one asset useful in his current employment.

Her brow furrowed in concentration, the _jeunne femme_ struggled to retrieve memories long since put away.

"Your Eminence, my father told me only that she died when he was born and her name was Jeanne. Of her husband, I only knew that my grandfather was descended from Daaé's who had emigrated from Norway to Sweden centuries before. As a luthier, apprenticed in France, he wished my father to follow in his trade and was disappointed but philosophical at his son's decision to become a musician instead."

The Archbishop nodded in encouragement, adding his own confidences.

"She had a last name, my child, and a history. Her name was Jeanne Bernadotte, a Gasconne from Pau. Her father was Baron Jean-Evangeliste Bernadotte. And her uncle was Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte who was a marshal of Bonaparte and King Karl of Sweden. Your late father was the second cousin to the current monarch, King Oscar."

"Furthermore she did not die in childbirth. She died nearly twenty years ago in her hometown near the Pyrenees. The townspeople at her funeral thought of Mlle. Bernadotte as a spinster who doted on her nephews, content to live quietly with her mother who outlived her and died four years later."

"No one but her intimate family knew that while visiting her royal uncle with her brother Gustave, she had met and contracted a marriage to a one-time apprentice luthier of Claude François Vuillaume by the name of Christer Daaé, who was returning from France to his native soil to ply his trade. Mlle. Bernadotte wished to surprise her favorite brother with a new violin. Instead, in short order, she surprised him with a brother-in-law. At the time of the coronation the Bernadotte family had divided on the issue of religion with the French-born King converting to Lutheranism and the Baron's family remaining solidly Catholic. On one point, they agreed. This entirely unsuitable marriage was to be annulled quickly and quietly, even though Frau Daaé was with child. Christer Daaé loved his new wife but he could not fight the power of the King of Sweden, even in Church matters; the very fact that he, as a native Swede had entered a Catholic church for the marriage ceremony was grounds for his expulsion from the country. The Holy See still entertained hopes of pressuring King Karl to abandon the Lutheran sect and bring Sweden back in the Church fold for the first time since the sixteenth century. To that end, it eased all roadblocks, but with one condition—the child would be baptized and raised in the Catholic faith of his mother. The Gascon Bernadottes countered by insisting that the child be raised by the father and his family and told nothing of his mother's family."

"Christer Daaé agreed to the baptism but had no intention of raising his son in the Catholic faith as long as they lived in Sweden, with its oppressively entrenched Lutheranism. Little Gustave was raised as a Lutheran and remained so until your mother's death. It is only when he left Sweden that he embraced his mother's religion for himself and you. There is a record of your baptism and first communion at Saint-Jacques le Majeur in Perros-Guirec, named thus because it was a shrine on the pilgrim road to Spain for St. Jacques de Compostela. Do you not remember it?"

Christine's stared at the Archbishop, trying to absorb his insinuation. The King of Sweden? Perros-Guirec? Yes… There was a baptism at this very odd-looking church that smelled of incense and ocean mist. She did not understand why that as a big girl of nearly seven she was being baptized. _Weren't only babies baptized? What had Father said? That there was no record of her baptism so the priest would do it again?_

No record of a Catholic baptism. She had been baptized a Lutheran in Sweden.

Raoul stirred slightly at the mention of St. Jacques. He remembered the summer with his mother's aunt, the widow of a naval captain and the Daaé's after his great-uncle's death, making him the Vicomte de Chagny. It was a strange church, built of pink granite quarried from the rocky coast, looking like a cross between a mosque and a cave. He and Christine had thought it quite magical. _Could it be possible they were ever that young and innocent?_

"It is a mystery why Daaé began practicing the faith in which he was baptized later in his life. Perhaps the surviving Bernadottes may have a clue," he reasoned, wondering if the _jeunne femme_ knew more than that passive Swedish face was revealing

_Or perhaps a ballet mistress who accepted responsibility for a dying man's daughter might know. Perhaps it is time to ask the right questions of her_, she mused.

"Mademoiselle, I do not know if you have seen any pictures of the late King but you do have many features in common with the family. They, too, possess dark eyes and curly dark hair, along with being tall and slender. You differ in the paleness of your complexion; they are a rather dark-skinned bunch, likely due to their Spanish ancestry."

She had never understood her dark coloring is a country of blue-eyed blondes, only that it was similar to Father's with even lighter hair and paler skin. Nevertheless, her complexion was not the lovely peaches-and-cream that she so envied in the other children. It was ivory.

Erik turned to stare at her in disbelief and comprehension. _She had been baptized at a church shrine on the St. Jacques de Compostela road? The same road on which the chateau at Bezancourt had its beginnings as an inn for its pilgrims? The road that led to Spain and to her ancestors?_

_My God, you were Aminta._

§

A slight flush spread over her cheeks as Christine became aware of the stares directed at her, compelling her mind to be emptied of all but the need to grab Erik's hand and flee as quickly as possible to Bezancourt. To the chateau, to the comfort of Mme. Giry and Meg, to Suzanne, Mme. Dumont, Mme Gobert, Allegra… In those safe walls was the promise of love and laughter, of relief from the boorish and spiteful attentions at the Populaire of would-be admirers and fellow employees. There she would not be plagued with the thoughts of children cruelly separated from their mothers.

De Bonnechose saw her anguish, feeling compelled to act in his duties as a priest of the Church, while not forgetting his obligations as one of its princes.

"Mlle. Daaé, I would speak to you first, and then Erik, in private. Madame, might I use your library?"

Madeleine nodded her assent, watching Christine lead the Archbishop away from the salon. Both of these children needed comfort.

§

Christine closed the door behind them for privacy. It might not be a confessional but it would serve the purpose.

"Mademoiselle, I realize the shock of learning of your and Erik's past. We cannot change that but must look to the future. I was watching the young Vicomte and consider myself a fair judge of body motions. He believes that the discovery of your noble antecedents and royal connections will not favor a marriage to the new Baron de Carpentier but would rather promote his own suit. After all, your betroth's past, while somewhat mitigated, is distinctly unsavory, especially for contemplation of marriage to the great-granddaughter of a baron and the cousin of a king."

Standing proudly erect, she answered him coolly.

"Your Eminence, my Bernadotte relatives will only know what I wish to impart, unless you, Erik, or the de Chagny's tell them otherwise. The wedding will go on."

De Bonnechose smiled thinly at her willfulness. She would need it in the coming years.

"Mademoiselle, I speak for the Church which has an influence on what your betroth and the de Chagny's will say or won't say."

"I have been in frequent correspondence with the Holy Father over this issue. It was the Church's position that should Erik offered for your hand then this marriage would be sanctioned. Yes, we discussed the likelihood amongst ourselves. It is our form of confession."

The words of argument bubbling at her lips dissipated in the air. _He agreed with her?_

Inwardly chuckling at her transformation from proud mademoiselle to confused girl, he added.

"I see you expected a different answer. The Church operates on its own logic, primary of which is the insurance of its survival for the next millennia in order to claim souls for the Kingdom. Erik de Carpentier fits into those plans. How often is a man of his intellect born? Once every century or two? How often does the Church have an opportunity to influence the direction of that intellect? Da Vinci laughed at us behind his back, while he did Pope Alexander and Leo's bidding. John Stuart Mill's father made sure the Scottish Calvinists never had a chance with him, much less the Church of Rome. The Church found Erik in the bowels of Hell and pulled him out. Unlike the others, he has experienced the Grace of God and is unlikely to forget it."

"You, too, were brought back into the fold of the One True Faith by your father. I, like the Almighty, do not believe in coincidence. Erik needs a helpmeet such as you, not some fickle daughter of the nobility, but a strong and faithful daughter of the Church who will serve as an everyday reminder to him of God's mercy. You have looked past his face."

"As I stated, the Church looks to the future. If it is God's will, you will bear him children raised in the Faith, undoubtedly touched to greater and lesser degrees by his immense gifts and your not inconsiderable ones. While the Hierarchy deplores entertainment which seeks to placate rather than elevate, it has not gone unnoticed by the priests of the Madeleine your attentiveness to the sacraments, your care of the younger children at the opera house, and your virtuous example to them in spite of a dubious occupation. France is becoming a horror with its absent fathers and inattentive mothers but I do not think that will be the state of affairs with your children."

"In any case, the Church needs them, also, for its survival."

Christine opened her mouth to protest only to think better of it. Her pragmatic Scandinavian blood understood the practicalities of survival, be it humans or institutions. Her newly discovered French/Spanish blood decried the seeming ruthlessness of it. Callous or not, the Church was still powerful enough, even in France, to protect Erik if the need arose. And all of her blood demanded that.

De Bonnechose nodded in approval at the evidence of her deliberations, which played across her face. She would be Erik's anchor in the coming years.

"Mademoiselle, I do not know whether to pity you or envy you your future. Ultimately, it is in God's hands. But the Holy Father would tip the scales in your favor. He has charged the Premonstratensian _abbé_ _général_ to instruct the White Canons at St. Martin de Mondaye to offer prayers in perpetuity for the de Carpentier de Chagny family. This is most irregular and indicative of the Holy Father's seriousness"

"I wish to speak to Erik, now, and knowing him, he is not very far from the vicinity of the library door."

Christine gently opened the door, only to notice his presence some distance down the hallway. He had respected her privacy but only to an extent. But his face—was there doubt there, doubt that she thought had been erase days ago in a dressing room with the ring on her fourth finger? She ran to him and kissed him passionately.

Slightly breathless, he queried, "You were there longer than I expected."

The doubt was still lingering in his eyes.

"Oh, he was just reminding me of my duties, waxing on with all the enthusiasm of a district attorney instructing the jury. The gist of it was quite simple."

Erik cocked his left eyebrow at her and faintly smiled, "Duties?'

Unconsciously slipping her hand over her stomach, she feigned a levity she was not sensing.

"Yes, that I am to be a meek and dutiful wife and devoted mother."

He chuckled low in his throat, surprised that he could laugh at anything this day. There was a look of triumph on the boy's face when the Archbishop mentioned Christine's royal connections. De Chagny had not given up on her, the young fool, and was angling for any advantage to tear Christine from him. He pressed his lips against her forehead in relief; de Bonnechose had delivered the Church's verdict in his favor.

Christine embraced him tightly with an infinitesimal shudder of relief at the comfort she found there. At the moment, both were too full of sad regrets to reconnect to their joy.

"Go to him, Erik. I need a breath of fresh air after this."

Loathing to be separated, he asked.

"Where will I find you?"

Running her forefinger along the line of his eyebrow, she answered.

"I will be at the stables to visit Allegra's dam and to check over the new foals born since my absence."

Erik touched her cheek trailing his thumb down the ribbon tied under her chin, connected to the delightfully frivolous maroon confection on her piled-up tresses. _She would always find comfort in her Dala horse._

Tearing himself away from one last kiss, he entered the library as she went to the foyer to request her dark blue paletot for the walk outside.

Had Erik not been so distracted he might have noticed the presence of a shape in the shadows at the other end of the hall, watching them unseen.

§

"Erik, come in. Let me congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. May it bring the joy and peace you desire."

Erik looked at de Bonnechose measuredly. The former prosecutor did not indulge in polite conversation.

"Yes, I know, I will get to the point. I assume Mlle. Daaé has informed you of the Church's blessing on the arrangement despite what you and I know that young pup is thinking. He can have his pick of any number of young, noble ladies—_she_ is for you. Not that my opinion matters with you, I fear."

Erik's self-satisfied grin of agreement caused de Bonnechose to clear his throat of the laugh caught in it.

"I understand Willekins warned you of your laical obligations. I am here to inform you of them. This year the Society of Jesus will consecrate itself to the Sacred Heart at the Shrine of the Sacred Heart of Jesus at Paray-le-Monial in Burgundy. Next year will mark the formation of a new confraternity to be named the _Hiéron de Val d'Or_. Its purpose will be the study of esoteric Catholicism and the possibility of forming a "Kingdom of Heaven" in Europe based on spiritual rather than social, political or economic foundations. The Holy Father has already appointed a French Jesuit priest, Victor Drevon and a Spanish baron, Alexis Sarachaga as its founders. The Baron is known for his devotion to the study of esoteric Christianity. They could use your knowledge and your skill as an architect in the planning of a future research center on the site."

Erik snorted in astonishment at the Archbishop's rush of words. _Had Michel's fine wine gone to his head?_

"Your Eminence, any casual scholar of antiquity knows that esoteric Christianity is code language for Hermeticism. If memory serves correctly, were not these same adherents put to the torch for dabbling in alchemy and astrology in the not too distant past? Isn't the Church involved in spiritual warfare against the Freemasons and occultists as we speak?"

"Mother of God, and the Holy Father approves of this?"

De Bonnechose arranged his face in its most serious expression. The Baron, of all men, needed to know he was as serious as a judge on this issue.

"Erik, the Catholic Church has suffered its heaviest losses of influence in France. We need a movement to counteract this trend. Baron Sarchaga has convinced the Holy Father of the righteousness of usurping certain hermetitic practices of our enemies for the benefit of the Church, rescuing them from depravity, and giving them a higher, holier purpose. This Age has itching ears; we will scratch them a bit with the _Hiéron de Val d'Or_."

Erik stared around him at the volumes in the shelves lining the walls. Such a conventional library might be found in any nobleman's residence. It in no way compared to his collection of ancient and esoteric knowledge at the chateau, part of which was kept hidden in a secret vault. The Church could very well wind up being burnt at the stake for allowing laypersons to dabble in what they did not fully understand. He would agree, if only to monitor its progress and control any damage. This was not new in the history of the Church. Another confraternity, the _Compagnie du Saint Sacrement,_ had been disbanded in the seventeenth century by the Holy See under the weight of its rabid anti-heretical excesses. Then there was the Knights Templar who may or may not have been guilty of similar immoderation…

_Still it was intriguing and not without a little irony. Hundreds of years ago, a young ruler bedeviled by a mask had wished for such a kingdom in the holy city of Jerusalem. The cynic in him doubted its likelihood but if it were only possible…_

_Yes, he would play their game, watching them from the inside. That is, only as long as no harm came to his family from the association. _

§

_Fresh air, indeed! _

Still, the mixture of hay, oats, and manure was perfume to the suffocatingly genteel atmosphere of the salon. The stable was at least a reminder that other worlds existed, worlds that did not revolve around pain and betrayal.

Christine held her hand against the metal bars of the box stall, wishing she had a carrot or apple for Allegra's dam, instead of a gloved hand to rub her muzzle.

_My fine lady, you will never understand how privileged you were to be allowed to care for your foals._

She turned around at the sound of the soft footfall only to inch back against the bars, feeling their cool metallic hardness against her back even through layers of clothing.

_Raoul_

His eyes were softer now, the hardness replaced by an avid glitter. She did not know which alarmed her more.

"Christine, I would have given you the world. I willingly gave you my love. All I asked for in return was your love."

Her lower lip trembled at the accusation. That he suffered was the drop of sorrow in her pool of happiness but its uncanny ability to pollute her world was terrifying.

Struggling to be understood, she whispered pleadingly.

"Raoul, how could I give you what was already given?"

"What you mean is that he took your love." The hardness returned momentarily to be smoothed over again. He moved forward, light touching her cheek, only to recoil as she jerked and turned her face away.

"No, he never asked for my love. You never asked what he said to me, if anything, when I went back to him after untying you. He said, "Christine, I love you." He never expected me to love him in return. It was enough for him that he could love me. At that point, my feelings were irrevocably set."

He sneered his response with caustic acuity. "You have an unusual way of expressing your love, Mademoiselle, abandoning him to that mob."

_What had happened to her gentle childhood friend?_

"Yes, I left him and swallowed the doubt of my actions. He could have been killed. But he would have died a slow painful death if he had come to me without learning to love himself a bit. I put my trust in God to protect him until I could claim him, for you see I never realized over a period of years that he had already claimed my love."

Raoul flinched at the bald honesty of her emotion. Whatever claim his cousin had over her, its duration, compared to his one summer at Perros-Guirec, could not be argued. However, what the man was away from Christine…

"But Christine, the type of man he is, the life he has lived…"

"Will be covered by the grace of God. Raoul, I do not expect it to be easy."

Pacing side to side, he turned again to her, declaring, "I do not believe he has changed."

"I do. I have no other choice." The pleading in her eyes nearly broke him but he could not give in to it.

"I can give you so much more than he can. Though I can never be the Comte de Chagny, your life with me would never pain you. We could travel, socialize in the best circles… What will you have with him? You life will be defined by the walls of his chateau, the fear that someone will reveal his past. That portrait of his father will haunt you, knowing that you will never the never see its handsomeness on your _husband's_ face."

Christine right hand clinched to the point of bloodlessness. It took all of her will not to slap him at that last remark. Her answer, given in even tones, only hinted of her resentment

"You will never understand that I do not see the face you see."

Sweeping past him, no longer able to constrain her rage at present as well as past offences, she spat back over her shoulder, "If the positions were exchanged, would you wish me to be repelled by your hideousness or would you get down on your knees and thank God that I love your soul more than your face?"

§

Attracted by the sound of the now whinnying mare, he moved closer in order to calm her, dropping his head in pain at Christine's accusation. He did not think himself vain but his mirror did not lie. His face was handsome, his ancestry and title reputable, and his wealth respectable. But it had not been enough for a Swedish _coryphée_ and diva. She chose to love a scarred-face murderer, never knowing anything about his except that he was her Angel of Music. His cousin's newly elevated status did not seem to matter a whit to her. She loved the man.

"Cousin, I may have been born a gentleman but hardly raised as one. As you were born and raised as one, I expect better of you than to keep vexing the lady. She has made her decision."

Raoul spun around at the low silky tones of the Baron de Carpentier, dressed in his customary black. Her Angel of Music was his Angel of Death. Raoul's hand reflexively grasped for the sword that was not at his side.

"Were you here all the time, _Phantom_? Perhaps in the rafters? I am surprised that you would lower yourself, having enjoyed the elegant comforts of the flys at the Populaire. Perhaps it could it be that a barn is more fitting for one with your inexplicable proclivities?

Erik shrugged at the insult. Nadir had said far worse and lived to draw his next breath.

"Sheathe that invisible weapon, _Cousin_. It serves no purpose."

"I will be the judge of that, would that I had the real weapon by my side. Who is to say that your fondness for loops of rope has never left you, in fact so much that one may be on your person as we speak?"

"Are you suggesting that I would garrote you, prop your body against that mare's stall, and then coolly take tea with your mother? De Chagny I never suspected you of having such a vivid imagination."

"Not imagination, _Phantom_, but common sense. A leopard does not change his spots."

"Ah, but a chameleon can alter his hue. Part of my personality may never change but I certainly have the ability and intelligence to indulge in a little protective coloration. The one gratifying element of today's revelation is the protection it affords for my bride. And speaking of protection… I have been informed of a certain laxity on your part concerning her well-being. The poisoning I might excuse as dunderheaded idiocy but the lying was self-aggrandizing manipulation at her expense. You did not serve her well and I take exception."

"You may take exception all you want but I still believe keeping her away from you is in her best interest."

_The boy doesn't even have Nadir's clever tongue to recommend him. I wonder if Christine ever found him tedious._

"You may call me a leopard my boy, but you are in serious danger of favoring a donkey. The lady has made her choice and a _true_ gentleman would not make himself a nuisance to her any longer."

Erik expected a spark of anger at his provocation but the boy acted as if he had not comprehended a word of the insult.

"You are correct when you say you were not raised a gentleman. You accuse me of lying to have my way. Did discovering that you are the son of a nobleman suddenly instill you with honor? Or are you still using your Phantom trickery to deceive and manipulate Christine? Even now, do you use your magician's voice to control her? At night, does she warm your bed at your hypnotic bidding in order to satisfy your rutting lusts?"

The blow to Raoul's solar plexus was inhuman in its swiftness and precision. As he struggled to work through the pain to regain his breath while pushed up against the stall bars, he became aware of hell-fire blue eyes and a white mask mere centimeters from his face, the iron forearm against his neck, the serpent like hiss of "_Baise-toi_, de Chagny" spewing between pitiless clenched teeth.

Digging his forearm a bit harder against his larynx, Erik reverted to a bland expression accompanied by an unnatural calmness.

"With minimal effort I could rattle off five ways to kill you right now with my bare hands and leave a beautiful corpse for your wake. However, as I have promised your mother, I will let some other _bon gars_ have the pleasure when you again are inclined to make ill-advised remarks, as you no doubt will. After you have recovered, I suggest you vacate theses premises; they may have unduly influenced your decision to adopt the manners of a stable boy.

Retracting his arm and stepping back to let Raoul collapse to the ground, Erik straightened the folds in his cape with flick of insouciance and resumed his icy glare at the man crumpled in front of him, still sputtering and gasping for breath. His offer of a hand of support was met with a growl of refusal from below. It was just as well; Erik did not relish any additional physical contact with him, considering what he was to say next.

"If you ever again cast any aspersions on Christine's virtue or touch her without her leave—better yet without my leave which you will never have, you will find yourself invalided for quite some period longer than the few minutes it will take to regain your breath from the _dainty_ tap I just gave your chest."

With that, Erik, Baron de Carpentier swept out of the stable.

§

Erik returned to the salon to find Christine in conversation with Madeleine and Michel. De Bonnechose had left for Rouen, satisfied that his role in the proceedings was an initial success.

To Christine's bewilderment he announced, "I have instructed the landau to be readied. We are leaving as soon as possible." She did not like the look on his face as he politely declared their intentions—it was too closed.

Madeleine put up her hand in protest. "Erik, Cook is planning a special luncheon for us so that you might become better acquainted with your cousin…"

Taking her hand and kissing it, he apologized, "Madeleine, another time, perhaps, when emotions are not running so high." Bowing to Michel, he offered his hand.

"Cousin, Christine will be departing at the end of next week for Paris. You will understand if I do not wish to discuss family issues until that has passed. Possibly the following week? I will send a telegraph suggesting an appropriate day if that meets with your approval."

Michel's eyes swept over him with an appraising coolness. Francois would become exaggeratedly polite while in the white heat of anger. His father told him it was preferable to his outbursts as a young man but this was unnerving nonetheless. While not knowing the cause of Erik's temper, he suspected it had something to do with his son. Both had been absent from the house for a period.

"Of course, Cousin, I am at your disposal."

§

Christine had said nothing to him, or he to her after announcing their eminent departure to the Comte and Comtesse. Sitting across from him in the carriage, she looked at him intently rather than the passing Normandy countryside, watching for some clue to reveal his state of mind. When she thought she could bear it no longer, he broke the silence.

"I should hate my father but how can I? Under the same circumstances, would I dare risk you? For if he felt a fraction for my mother of what I feel for you, I can too well understand the agony of his dilemma."

Christine leaned towards him in empathy, taking his hands between hers. "Erik, I pity his choice but his faith was not strong enough. He did not entrust your mother's wellbeing to God. Instead, he chose that role for himself, not considering the position was already taken. His pride was his downfall."

"Ah yes, his pride, which demanded perfection... I could hate him for placing that burden upon me but can I judge him for that since I, too, have sought perfection all of my life to replace what I could not find in my mirror."

Christine looked down at their hands in confusion, not knowing what to answer him. _Why did that admission unnerve her so?_

Giving her one measured look, he sighed, turning to look out the window but withdrawing to look into his misery.

_If this were only about my parents. I heard what the boy said to her, about walls and the portrait now riding in the back of the carriage. She may never feel that way but others will and they will pity her. _

_Hatred, at least, has all the mercy of a quick knife between the ribs but pity is a slow poison, gradually draining the soul…_

_Curse him for pointing out the obvious. He always knows what dissonant chord to strike in me. Never with even the slightest fear, damn him. God, I wanted to kill him on the spot that night when he shouted at me that Christine would lie to save him. She would have._

_I let her go once. _

_Please not again._

No word was spoken but she knew he had fled to his prison. It would not do. She would bring him back to her.

Deftly, she unpinned her hat and laid it on the cushioned seat beside her. One by one, the pins came out of her upswept hair, allowing it to cascade like a waterfall around her shoulders. All the while, his attention, distracted from the outside, now focused on her actions. Gracefully, she shifted across the carriage to sit beside him, to rest her palms on his shoulder and recline her head against his neck. Stiffening at first at her touch, he gradually relaxed, stroking her curls and allowing himself to melt in the comfort of her warmth and scent.


	21. Chapter 21

**No Going Back Now**

"Jean-Louis, Léon, please wait."

Happily, the acute reflexes of youth prevented the footmen from barreling into their future mistress with their laden trays. She unexpectedly had raised her hand up while outside the door of the music room, signaling them to proceed no further.

What she heard did nothing to ease her concerns over the revelations of the day or Erik's reaction to them. It only served to make her heart sink further at listening to the wind-swept melody of Chopin's _Prelude Number 8 in F# minor_, its notes like icy fingers unpleasantly stroking the back of her neck. Obviously, Erik was exorcising his demons on the keyboard rather than the more destructive ways of his past.

Waiting for the last benedictory notes, she lightly tapped four times in two sequences. On rare occasions, to his displeasure, the servants found it necessary to interrupt him in this most private area of the chateau. Christine, naturally, was welcome at any time. Still, wishing to respect his privacy, she light-heartedly suggested a special code to alert him to her presence. What did he think of the opening eight notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony? Erik had laughed heartily at her sense of the absurd and agreed.

It also was she who arranged the light meal now carried by the two footmen. Erik had instructed Mme. Dumont to prepare a late luncheon for Christine as he had no wish to dine and would spend the rest of the afternoon in his music room. Both women stared without comment as he escaped up the stairs two at a time to change and retire. Shrugging at his mood, Christine instructed the housekeeper to arrange for wine and a platter of cold meats, cheeses, fruit, and bread to be ready after she had changed.

Erik glanced up at her entrance, attempting a bleak smile, only to follow it with a grimace at the food. He had no desire to eat when his past was doing its damndest to devour him.

_If only…_

In only his father had found some way to keep both him and his mother alive. If only he had not yielded to the cruelty of Emma de Carpentier and joined the gypsies. If only he had never left the opera house. If only he had…

But what if the sum total of these if onlys had meant that he would never have felt the love of any female, much less of this beautiful child-woman who was serenely directing the activities of the servants? That he would have never felt that wave of peace each time Lucien placed the wafer on his tongue.

The child-woman critically surveyed the footmen's handicraft. The dishes were assembled with precision on a black tilt top table, wine glasses filled to the precise depth.

Nodding her approval, she said to the young men, "Everything appears to be order. You may return to your other duties."

With that dismissal, Christine walked to the piano bench to sit beside him, offering him a glass of wine while she nibbled on a piece of cheese from the heaped plate she held securely, all the while capturing his eyes with hers. He knew the look in those dark depths—_you are not alone—I am here_. Yes, she was here, he reflected in bittersweetness, absently tearing off a piece of the crusty loaf.

§

She listened as he played, holding his wineglass for him and stealing an occasional sip. His tunes mirrored the disorder of his emotions, stormy Liszt and Chopin; sweet Mendelssohn and Schubert. His own works had moved beyond the discordant harmonies of _Don Juan Triumphant_—they were full of aching _yearning_.

Despite the large windows that allowed the warmth of the sun's rays to fall on her, she experienced a chill, setting down the wineglass and plate on the piano cabinet in order to pull her silk-fringed shawl tighter around her bodice. Changing clothing has been a rushed affair; a simple long-sleeved white silk blouse waist, its square neck cut nearly to the top of her chemise, and a dark green bengaline skirt with apron. An exotically designed red Kashmir shawl, a gift from Erik, draped sensually around her shoulders. She had not bothered with the effort of inserting a modest fichu in her neckline.

The rustling to adjust her toilette interrupted his concentration. Breaking off from playing, he seized her body to his, claiming her lips in a deep, passionate kiss in which to pour some of his troubled emotions. She responded with sweet fervency, trailing her hand down his neck to his open collar above his vest, his cravat and frockcoat long since discarded. At the feathery touch of her fingertips, he broke from her lips, moving his along her jaw, down her swan-like neck, to the racing pulse at its base. Her gasp of surprise and pleasure met with a startling growl from deep inside his chest.

What happened next caused all breathing on her part to stop. He tore his mask off and slammed it onto the colorful Persian rug beneath the piano. She dared not breathe—he had never removed his mask voluntarily in her presence—yet he did now, prompted by desire or perhaps some other unformed emotion. She did not know and did not care.

With all of her being, she controlled the visceral shiver that threatened to boil over to the outermost layer of her skin as she felt his hand pushing away the shawl and his lips move closer to the bottom of her neckline just above her chemise. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair, instinctively feeling the need to allow him this liberty, while wrestling to control her own reaction to this most sensuously delicate of incursions. Then, as suddenly, he ceased, pressing his marred cheek against her breasts as if listening for her heartbeat would convince himself that she, at least, was alive in the charnel house of his past.

When she felt his hot, stinging tears roll down the hollow between her breasts, she choked back her own sob into her kisses on his glossy, dark hair.

§

Mme. Dumont irritably pushed back a loose hair as she and Perrot assembled the servants with no small degree of difficulty in the Great Hall. Their inattentiveness might be explained, in part, by the great distraction of their efforts to prepare for their own Twelfth Night celebration. Still, this was no excuse for servants that Perrot and she had trained diligently in order to instill a suitable understanding of their positions. Out of his generosity, Monsieur had agreed to relocate the crèche from its corner in the salon to the center of the Great Hall, to be flanked by his gift of the tables of food, drink, and, of course, _galette du roi_ for after the Midnight Mass.

Both Monsieur and Mademoiselle had been tightlipped upon their unexpectedly early return from Fleury-sur-Andelle, he retreating to his music room, her following him after emerging from her bedchamber. Now, he wished all of the servants called together.

She looked up at the sound of the library door opening, surprised to see only the Giry's emerging, their faces solemn and thoughtful. Both women had just returned from Rouen, only to be immediately escorted by Jean-Louis to the library to meet with Monsieur and Mademoiselle. As the two women approached the Grand Staircase, Mme. Giry stopped to inform the housekeeper that they were to change out of their carriage dresses but that Alice and Hélène were to remain to attend the couple now emerging from their seclusion. She and her daughter would manage nicely.

Erik felt Christine's reassuring hand on his arm as he faced the servants, not feeling quite right about what he was to say. Michel had requested that Erik spare Francois and the family name some dignity, which it did not precisely deserve, reminding him that Christine would bear that name. Roles would be reversed. Instead of the Church, Erik would be the instigator of the investigation into his past. It would be he who had discovered his true name and antecedents some years earlier but had chosen this moment to present himself to the head of the de Carpentier family with his proofs, spurred by a need to settle his affairs before his marriage. Charles and Emma de Carpentier's role would disappear—a disturbed servant of the doctor abducted the ill child and sold him to the gypsies, who in turn maimed his face for their own profit. In order to protect his reputation and deny his culpability, the doctor told Francois that the child had died of contagion. Thus, the dignity of the de Carpentier de Chagny name escaped scandal since the doctor and servant were assumed long since dead in Switzerland. Only the inner circle of the de Chagny family, priests of the Church bound by the Seal of Confession, and the Emperor of France knew differently. By the time of Francois' death, servants had died, left for other employment, or were pensioned off. Much could be forgotten or imperfectly remembered in nearly thirty-five years.

Christine's eyes widened at the change in his posture as he surveyed the gathering before addressing them. The proud, erect man in the portrait had come back to life.

"I have an announcement to make which I trust shall have no bearing on the daily operation of this household. The Comte de Chagny has determined that I am the rightful heir of the previous Comte de Chagny. That child presumably expired under his doctor's care but was actually abducted and raised under _different circumstances_. With the permission of the Emperor, I have chosen not to assume the title from my cousin but will be styled Baron de Carpentier, my father's lesser title, until my cousin's demise. I intend to live as I have, with no more change than the affixation of a coat of arms on the carriages and a change of stationery as soon as I design it." Even his own words did not convince him. His father's signet on his right hand, a presentation from Michel, gave lie to the studied correctness of his tone. The ring, which had fit almost too perfectly, now tore at his flesh like a golden nobleman's _cilice_.

Suzanne's agile mind rapidly calculated the portent of his words. A quick glance around was all that was needed to tell her volumes. Her fellow servants' look of goggle-eyed shock dissolved into more erect bearings and serious miens, with reason. As young as they were, they were now servants of a nobleman, to be precise a baron who would, one day, be a comte. She knew the petite mademoiselle had no personal servant. Now, the mademoiselle was to be a baronne upon her marriage, in need of a lady's maid. She would redouble her efforts to prove indispensable…

"Furthermore," Erik continued, responding to Christine's tender pressure on his arm, "I pray you overlook my ungentlemanly behavior over the past few days. My change in station is somewhat disconcerting but will become familiar in time. Meanwhile, Perrot, Mme. Dumont, due to the revels I will not expect the servants to commence their duties until 10 o'clock in the morning."

He looked down at Christine, rewarded by the beam that lit her face.

Mme. Gobert, on the other hand, was aghast.

"Monsieur, er, M. le Baron, what of your breakfast? I could not possibly stay abed, knowing that guests have not broken their fast."

Christine nodded reassuringly at the older woman's distress.

"Mme. Gobert, I have offered my services to M. le Baron, with the assistance of Mlle. Giry. Besides, he has promised to instruct me in the art of brewing Turkish coffee."

The good dame drew her breath in her ample bosom as if to protest, only to be mollified by Christine's charming smile and soothing words.

"Madame, please put your mind at ease. I assure you I am quite capable of recognizing the difference between an egg beater and a potato masher."

Her mouth widened in even greater humor at the cook's stunned expression of disbelief, feeling the tremor in Erik's arm as evidence of his own feeble attempt to suppress his laughter.

It would not be easy but they would cross this stormy lake and make a safe landing.

§

It was a fine crisp night for the Twelfth Night Procession to Midnight Mass, the stars so bright that they made the torches almost redundant. Lucien gazed fondly as the children, from teenagers to toddlers, beat on drums and blew on pipes, marching grandly in their shepherds' clothing towards the church. One of the older girls signaled the beginning of the carol…

_Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle  
Un flambeau, courons au berceau.  
C'est Jésus, bonnes gens du hameau,  
Le Christ est né, Marie appelle  
Ah! Ah! Que la mère est belle  
Ah! Ah! Que l'Enfant est beau. _

It was a time for all of the townspeople of Bezancourt. Even the Huguenots and anti-Papist atheists could not resist the innocent pageantry of the celebration, mingling along the street with their Catholic brethren in unfamiliar bonhomie for the occasion.

Lucien stood on the church steps, smiling broadly at their singing, but unable to resist a glance at the betrothed couple watching the procession. Earlier, they had ridden to the _presbytère_, only to be redirected by Mme. Camier to the sanctuary. The appearance of the couple in the narthex brought back painful memories of a wretched lone horseman who had poured out his soul in a morning of burning confession. Now, it was two, not with personal confessions, but generational ones.

_So this was Henri-Marie's great secret_. The amount of family betrayal was outrageous but, with time, it would ultimately serve to drive the two closer together. Lucien covertly eyed the _jeunne femme_ with interest, wishing he knew more of her. She was barely past her girlhood, her youth betrayed by occasional blushes and a downcast tilt of her head. Yet he knew that she could be utterly fearless if the need arose. Erik was indeed blessed.

Still, not all was quiet in his heart. Many years in the priesthood had given him a sensitivity of the undercurrents of the human condition. There was something here he did not understand, like a missing piece of a puzzle that when placed would reveal the whole picture. Perhaps it was an inconsequential piece but at this point, he did not know.

God willing, he would understand in time. He would pray on it.

§

Christine recognized her right away. After the service, the children had gathered around Erik as bees around a hive, greedy for wrappers of Turkish Delight in spite of the promised _galette du roi_ at their respective homes. He had spoken of this little one, all of four years old, all black curls and brown eyes, impudently demanding a second piece from the very beginning. Prodded by her _maman,_ she slowly approached Christine with her curtsey and darted behind Erik's cape.

"Lucie, remember my boon for the second piece," he turned and scowled down at her with mock seriousness, "you must properly introduce yourself to Mlle Daaé." Erik required an exchange for that second wrapper—she must sing a tune, recite the Rosary, give him a pretty stone or flower. The older children minded less and, after all, she was the youngest of those whose parents would allow such a treat that might spoil one's appetite.

Christine's heart filled with loving pride when told of his solution. He would be such a good papa.

As Lucie slowly inched towards her, Christine sank gracefully to her knees and offered her gloved hand. Lucie took it and sucked in her breath, her other hand yanking at a wayward strand of black curls.

"Mam'selle, does your hair snarl dreadfully like mine? Maman says that rats live in my hair but that cannot be true or I would have heard them squeak," lisped the _petite_, her words an unruly jumble of French and Norman dialect.

Christine bit her lower lip to control the laugh threatening to bubble out. A quick glance at Erik showed him to be suddenly interested in the stars above, smiling faintly at whatever amusement they offered.

"Yes, it can so I must be careful to brush it every night," Christine sighed, replying with a few halting Norman words she knew in order to put this little one at ease. Her own Scandinavian mother language had proven quite useful in unraveling some of the unfamiliar words to which her stay at Fleury-sur-Andelle had exposed her.

"Maman tries, but sometimes it is hard for me to sit still. Maman told me that Monsieur is going to marry you. He wears a mask to cover the scars on his face, you know. You are very pretty. Are you sure you wish to marry him?"

The mortified _maman's_ attempt to hiss her little girl into silence met with Christine's upraised hand and tender look of understanding.

"Lucie, are you able to keep a secret?" she asked. The little girl nodded vigorously in the affirmative, her curls bobbing in agreement. With her eyes shining luminously at Erik, Christine gathered Lucie into her arms and whispered loudly into her and everyone else's ear. "Monsieur has promised that if I marry him, he will give me all the Turkish Delight I wish!"

Lucie's round-eyed astonishment at her confession nearly sent Christine into giggles, while the others around them chuckled fitfully with self-conscious humor at what could have been a supremely awkward moment. However, Erik's beatific smile to his betroth warmed the chill of the night air on her skin finer than the most expensive furs.

Once past her initial shock the _petite_ screwed her innocent childish face in a calculating expression.

"Then, Mam'selle, I shall marry him, too."

§

Minette watched indulgently from her comfortable armchair as Christine and Meg nibbled from a plate of victuals looted by Suzanne from the servants' buffet. Out of consideration for the turn of events, Père Mallaird and his housekeeper had not insisted on a lengthier visit for cake and cider. They arrived back at the chateau with the servant gala in full swing.

It was just a well. Meg and she were exhausted after a busy day of sight-seeing in Rouen and certainly Christine and Erik looked drained, Erik more so. Surprisingly, he kissed Christine at the second floor landing and made a speedy exit to his own bedchamber, leaving his betroth in astonishment.

Sensing Christine's misery, Meg suggested that Suzanne bring them food while they aided with each other's nightly toilette in her maman's bedchamber.

Minette felt like a girl in the dormitories with its memories of dress unhooking, groans of relief at releasing corsets, and chatter about the day's events. Christine smiled at Meg's description of Rouen but it was a smile that never went to her eyes, her hands fidgeting with the wide _Valenciennes_ lace that edged the belted wraparound white flannel dressing gown.

"Girls, have a care with crumbs!" the ballet mistress scolded with mock exasperation as the _jeunne femmes_ made a dining table of the bedclothes. "I will be sleeping in that bed tonight."

Meg giggled at her mother's admonition but Christine looked stricken, hastily setting the plate on the bed stand.

"Christine, I did not mean for you to stop eating. Meg, enough about Rouen. It is obvious that your sister had wished to speak to me since we returned. Christine, do you wish to speak in private?"

Christine shook her head "No" just before Meg was to launch her protest. "Madame, Meg knows so much of my life that I would not deny her this."

Folding her hands serenely in her lap, Minette prompted, "Well, my child, what is it."

The _jeunne femme_ wet her lips in hesitation, forming her thoughts with care.

"You know of what transpired at the Chateau de Chagny. What I don't understand is why Father had me baptized as a Catholic that summer in Perros-Guirec. I sense he confided in you."

With so many secrets being revealed, Minette was hardly surprised that this one, too, would be uncovered.

"Yes, he did, my dear. At your mother's death, Gustave sought out his father in an attempt to breach their differences. Christer Daaé was confined to bed in ill health, carrying the additional burden of those family secrets. The old man gave him a letter written on his former wife's deathbed in which she begged her son's forgiveness for being weak in obeying the King and her Bernadotte relatives' wishes and hoped he would pray Rosaries for her soul. At that bit of revelation, Herr Daaé admitted the promise to raise the son as Catholic had been broken."

"He lived but another two weeks. Gustave played the attentive, forgiving son but inwardly seethed at the injustice. Do you remember your grandfather, Christine?"

Christine wriggled in the bed to find a more comfortable position that refused to be found.

"Yes, after thinking about it this afternoon, I remembered we traveled to the house of an old man who had violins stashed all around. Father said he was my grandfather. Upon seeing me, Grandfather wept and said I had Jeanne's eyes. I did not understand who Jeanne was at the time but now I do."

Minette reflected sorrowfully, _Gustave should have told her this, but no, how could such a little girl have understood?_

"Your father felt that his father should have been more of a man and stayed with his wife. He understood a world that used women as pawns, including his mother, and was desperate that you have a career that could give you some level of independence. He also knew the Church had little to no power against the once Catholic monarch and a deeply entrenched Lutheran Church. So it allowed an annulment to gain a baptism, naively believing that Christer Daaé would keep his end of the bargain."

"After his funeral, your father took you and left Sweden and the Lutheran Church permanently to embrace the country and faith of his mother. I truly believed he wished to blot out his Swedish connections, as if he could. My dear, though you have French and Spanish blood, you are, at heart, a Swedish demoiselle whose steady nature is exactly what our tempestuous Erik needs. I am glad for that."

Christine smiled despondently at her last words. Her 'steady nature" did not seem to be of much use to Erik now. She could barely keep pace with his erratic moods today.

"Madame, did Erik ever meet my father?"

Minette jolted visibly at the startling question, scarcely able to imagine the ramifications of such an occurrence.

"No, Erik did not return to the Populaire until shortly after his death. Still, I think Gustave would have approved of Erik, not just because they both had the souls of artists, but because Erik would never let his artistry overrun his need to protect his own. Your poor father regretted deeply that he had not been more concerned with your wellbeing in pursuit of his muse. I think he rests easier that you are in the care of a man who would never allow you to be harmed."

Christine sighed and twisted the double row of lace on her elbow-length sleeves. _Oh, Erik, I wish you had returned a bit earlier from your travels so that you might have known my father._

§

Her pale face hung like a ghost in the mirror about the dressing table with her buttery soft flannel nightdress completing the eerie image. Savagely brushing her curls, she dared any rats to squeak. Today had been so hard, trying to be strong for Erik, smiling when she wanted to cry as her own family history haunted her. Next week would come too soon, she thought, while kicking off her old satin practice slippers and crawling on top of the bedclothes. Her days would be filled with rehearsals and voice lessons but what of her nights? Nights spent missing Erik dreadfully and regretting the past. God, she missed him now and he was only a few doors away.

Turning down the lamp flame to nothingness, she sat in the darkness, allowing her eyes to adjust to the shadows on the furnishings. Shadows of the past. They had abandoned love in the name of propriety and convention. Could their darkness reach from the past and tear her from Erik? White-hot anger boiled in her—no, never again. Jumping out of bed she heedlessly snatched open the door. The servants were still at their revelries though the lateness of the hour has dampened the noise level somewhat. She padded down the hall to its opposite end.

His bedchamber was dark as her own but her accustomed eyes could see right away that he was not there. Near weeping with vexation, she berated her rashness. _Christine Daaé there is only one reason you are in this room and it would seem you are denied that. No doubt, he is in the music room, reading or sketching, because you heard no music. A fine seductress you are!_

She turned to return to her bedchamber but spun around at the memory of her last visit to this room. She would give into the impulse now when no one could see her and make comment. Mme. Giry would disparage the _jeté_ as clumsy but it felt heavenly when her body landed on the soft embroidered velvet. She could faintly smell Erik's cologne, igniting her nerve endings with a desire for more, a more needed to dispel the less she had felt all day. Without hesitation, she pulled away the velvet cover to the linen sheets and snuggled between them. _Just a few moments. I mean no harm. I want just this little part of him. I need…_

§

That stubborn ass Hugo certainly could write suffering. He and Charles Dickens made quite a pair Erik concluded as the book rested in his lap against the black velvet of his dressing gown. The best thing Hugo could do was sail to France from his exile on an island of milch cows and spend a night with the Emperor drinking and smoking until they puked. Whoring was optional considering their respective age and health but as they were Frenchmen, all alternatives ought to be considered. That might resolve their differences soon enough. Idly flipping through the pages of _L'Homme qui rit_ he chuckled darkly after his—now how many glasses of brandy did this one make?

Could it be that Michel's line of de Carpentiers were so utterly lacking in imagination that they must use the plot of a book published a mere three years ago to explain his existence? Hugo had called them _comprachicos_, mutilators of children. He knew them by the Spanish word _comprapequeños_, a name whispered among the gypsies much as one would speak of a legend—or a devil. Whatever or wherever they were, they obviously had no need to practice their craft on him for which in some small degree he was grateful. The rumors of the consequences of their atrocities would make his face look like the _beautiful boy's_ in comparison.

Would he ever learn that overindulging in brandy didn't make him drunk, only cynical? The solution to today was in his bed—sleep it off tonight and see if it improves tomorrow. The lamp extinguished, he wended his way to his chamber with only the slightest loss of coordination soon to be remedied by the horizontal nature of his mattress. After a toss the dressing gown in the general direction of a chair, he heedlessly kicked off his velvet slippers and removed his mask to the bed stand. Slipping between the cool sheets normally signaled his taut muscles to relax but the sheets were unaccountably warm even with his nightshirt and…

_Bloody hell, who is in my bed?_ Those same muscles froze as he reviewed the possibilities. _I am getting old. Fifteen years ago, such carelessness would have been my death warrant._ Whoever it is, it is smaller and smells of viol… _My God, Christine, what are you doing here?_

Sleeping, obviously. He could tell by her slowed respiration that she was oblivious to her presence, which was not in the least his case. What to do? Should he wake her and deal with the mutual embarrassment. No, better to slip out as quietly as possible and return to the music room on the hope that she would awaken some time before the sleepy servants did and return to her room. Yes, that was it.

No, that was not it. As he prepared his escape, the sleeping Christine chose that moment to roll over and settle the upper half of her body on his chest, her face pressed against the hollow of his neck. Erik's shock gave way to clammy realization. There was no corset under her nightdress; therefore, he could feel every curve of her mature breasts. To make matters worse his right hand had drifted down into a natural posture, which happened to be on top of her nicely rounded bottom, and that hand was now refusing to move.

No touch in the lair to this moment had prepared him for the impact of this degree of physical closeness. He had played many roles in his life but had avoided acting out the role of his manhood, sensing the potential humiliation. Now that role was crowding everything else out, flooding his body with the desire to find release in the sweetness in his arms.

Christine would not come to his bed on a whim. She knew exactly what such a gesture would signal. He had to but wake his Sleeping Beauty with passionate kisses, to caress and arouse her as much as he already was. To fondle and kiss her perfect breasts without the hindrance of beastly layers of clothing. To caress the silky smoothness of her legs as he pushed her nightdress up past her…

To feel Minette box his ears if she ever found out that he had deflowered her foster daughter without the Church's consent.

She had done it once when he first arrived at the Populaire as a nine-year-old in retaliation for his making ghostly sounds behind the wall to frighten the _coryphées_. After that, he had learned to run faster than she could catch him.

Groaning in pain that only men can feel, he envisioned the line behind her. Madeleine, Lucien, de Bonnechose, Mmes. Dumont, Gobert, and Camier. Even the managers, if they had to deal with an _enceinte_ diva who was missing rehearsals due to morning sickness. Her still slender body had matured over the last year, signaling that as a distinct possibility if he allowed his aroused state to seek its natural conclusion.

Not the boy, though. Not after that confrontation in the horse barn. De Chagny would just take his _not_ imaginary foil and skewer his liver. Or perhaps regions further south, befitting the crime.

_Don Juan Triumphant, indeed._

§

The faint rhythmic ticking of the Drocourt carriage clock on his bed stand and Christine's soft breaths were hardly enough to ease his urge to run a bath—a cold one. Perhaps, he could slide her out of bed without waking her and slip her back to her bedchamber without alerting the entire household. Perhaps…

Stifling a yawn, he came to the conclusion that his body was becoming more warm and less heated with the astounding realization that this was the first time he had ever shared a bed with another human being, much less a comely female. And that it felt delicious, that is, with a female. Would this be their life? Knowing the soothing comfort of human touch, in addition to the _other_, which was its own set of heady thoughts?

His left hand unconsciously gravitated to her curls, warmed by a softness that the coal stove across from his bed could never hope to emulate. He should take her back to her room now but what was the harm in waiting a few more minutes…

§

It was uncertain whether it was the brightening morning skies or the faint ticking of a clock or steady rhythm of a muscular chest that woke Christine Daaé but wake her it did. At quick glance at the bed stand informed her that it was seven o'clock; a quick glance at her hand told her it was in an improper place as was the rest of her body. Somehow, the offending hand had worked its way through the placket of Erik's nightshirt and was resting comfortably on the light matting of dark hair on his chest.

Christine squeezed her eyes shut in prayer, hoping that the aforementioned hand had not participated in any bolder actions. Mother of God, Erik would think her a _demimondaine_! What had seemed appropriate in the heated emotions of last night no longer passed muster of the cold reality of day. What would Mme. Giry think of her? That good lady had toiled endlessly to guard her virtue and was to be rewarded with this? Her foster daughter in bed with a man and without a wedding ring?

Carefully removing her hand, she placed it on top of the mattress, bracing to lift herself, alert for any stirring of wakefulness on Erik's part in order to avoid the inevitable mortification of discovery. She would slip out as quietly as a mouse…

§

Pale blue eyes flew open to be greeting with a pair of huge dark brown eyes suspended above him, made larger by the horror in them.

_Christine! My mask!_

_Damn it._ Of course, he had frightened her. She had wakened, startled by the reality of his face that had been spared her in her resting state. A stab of pain through his heart reminded him that this might always be his reality every waking morning, a price his soul must pay to keep her at his side.

Only…

Her face had turned an alarming shade of red and newly formed tears threatened to drop from her long spiky lashes. Hardly what one would expect from a terror-stricken mademoiselle. Had he misunderstood something?

Perhaps he had. Christine flung her arms around and sobbed, hiccupping words such as trollop, nymphet, doxy while the object of her embrace smiled in delight. She hadn't even noticed his scars—she was just concerned about what he thought of her.

Well, he thought her just fine.

"Christine," he shushed, holding her tightly and stroking her hair, "we may have behaved precipitously in anticipation of our wedding night but I, you—we did nothing last night that could be considered remotely damning." _Just frustratingly painful_, he added in his mind.

She sniffed a bit more and rose over him to face him. What he saw was shining eyes of love and gratitude, not the revulsion he had assumed earlier. However, this position, coupled with a tightly twisted nightdress allowed him a vision of her breasts that left nothing to the imagination. What was imagined in the night could easily be imagined in the morning. Christine needed to be back in her own bedchamber.

"_Ma mie_, it is time Sleeping Beauty returned to her own bed."

Christine frowned a bit at his words but sighed in reluctant agreement. After recovering from her initial embarrassment, she luxuriated in _how warm and comfortable this all was_.

"Yes, my angel, I suspect the servants are still sleeping off the effects of last night's revels. No one need know—this will be our warm unspoken secret."

He smiled at her play of words on _Don Juan Triumphant_. There would be a proper time to engage fully the meaning of the words he wrote for his Aminta—but not now.

"Christine, do you have another nightdress readily available?"

She raised her eyebrows in puzzlement. Since they had done nothing "damning" that might remotely involve it, what did he mean?

"You are covered with the scent of my cologne. That needle-witted Suzanne will notice it right away. You can hide this one in the clothes press until it airs."

Christine nodded in agreement. She bent forward to give him a deep, lingering kiss and scooted from under the covers to reach the door. Seriously dazed, he contemplated the promised treasures under said nightgown as she stood beside the door, hand on knob.

"Christine, you realize that after we are wed I will expect a kiss like that every morning upon awakening."

She turned to grin at him saucily and countered, "A kiss? Erik, I am disappointed that your expectations are so low. Mine certainly are not." With a giggle, she slipped out the door and out of his sight but not out of his heart.

Throwing back the bedclothes he debated the efficacy of a cold bath after that kiss and those parting words but realized there was one task to be undertaken before Leon scratched on the door to prepare his toilette. Taking the Baccarat decanter of his cologne from its fitted slot in the red silk lining of his ebonized scent caddy, he pour liberal amount on his hands and proceeded to wipe its scent over the linens, bedclothes, and his own nightshirt.

_The past is in the past_, he reflected over the disclosures of yesterday while completing his task. There was no way he could change it so he might as well cross it for all times and watch it burn. It could only harm him, and possibly Christine and their children, if he owned it so he would let it go. Christine was his present and future. Her love was stronger than all that was behind him.

Instead of the bath, he crawled back under the covers, falling into a light slumber that gave dreams of dark hypnotic music and the scent of violets.

§

Not since he was a young law student at the _Université de Paris_ had Lucien Maillard sat in an opera house. True it was not the same. He was merely attending a rehearsal of _La Fille du Regiment_ as Christine Daaé guest so he need not worry about a ticket that in the past would jeopardize his always precarious student's budget.

He welcomed the opportunity to share a fine morning's train ride to Paris with Christine and the Girys owing to a last minute telegram requesting his appearance in a professional capacity at the baptism of a premature grandnephew. It would also give him an opportunity to reconnect to fellow law school graduates who still practiced in the city. Thoughtfully, his archbishop had arranged for his lodging at the Archdiocesan palace.

Only his concern of leaving Erik at such a critical juncture swayed him; it was the Comtesse de Chagny who allayed his fears. Since her son had departed abruptly and mysteriously for Paris followed by an excursion in Brittany, she assured Lucien that Michel would inundate his cousin with enough family business matters to keep his mind occupied for weeks not the mere days that Lucien would be absent.

Still, it wounded him deeply to see the couple part at the train station in Gournay-en-Bray. Erik was stricken at Christine's tearful embrace of goodbye, comforted to some extent that Lucien would be escorting her back to Paris. Future visits were uncertain in light of rehearsals and opera productions, with the next scheduled one being during the week of Ash Wednesday, over a month away.

Still, Lucien was delighted at the opportunity to become more closely acquainted with Mlle. Daaé and perhaps uncover the source of his nagging doubts. What he found was a sweet innocence that belied the hardship of her past and the turmoil of her relationship with Erik. Still, something was missing…

§

To the priest, she was youth itself onstage in her charming red and blue regimentals, her curls tied loosely back with a ribbon. Christine had chosen this rehearsal to model a potential costume that the seamstresses had just completed, no doubt to give him glimpse of the opening night he would not see. And her voice… In his memories as a student, he could not remember such a voice, unless it was during the Paris tour of her sister Swede, the great Jenny Lind. Yet she was retiring this glorious voice for the man she loved.

Glancing idly around, he filled his mind with the sights and sound of his youth as a carefree _bon vivant_ over thirty years ago. Had he ever been that young? Looking back at her just made him ache. He needed some fresh air.

If he had not vacated his seat he might not have notice the strange man in the lambs wool Astrakhan hat walking about the back of the theater with the ease of a manager. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second before the other man exited to the Grand Foyer.

_Of course! Erik's Persian._

He never met the man but knew his past was interwoven with Erik's as tightly as chain mail.

As he turned back, caught by Christine glorious rendition of an innocent orphaned girl caught up in love and a web of deceit, realization hit him as a blow from the broadside of a sword.

How could he hurt Erik thus? The younger man was like a son to him, an intellectual partner if not equal, a vindication of his spiritual lifework. On the other hand, there was a trusting young woman on that stage for whose soul he had responsibility if not outright charge. An offhand comment she made during his meal at the Giry's last night; at the time, it seemed inconsequential, lost in the conviviality of a dining table surrounded by beautiful women, but now…

He would not perform a marriage for Erik, Baron de Carpentier and Mlle. Christine Daaé. Moreover, he would insure that no other priest of the Church did.


	22. Chapter 22

**What Kind of Life Have You Known **

From his chair in the front row, Lucien did not respond at first to the slight creak of the sanctuary door, preferring to continue his meditation on the crucifix above the altar and on the sacrifice of Our Lord on the Cross. Try as he might, he could not go on, with other matters weighing on his conscience and the added annoyance of remembering to inform the _sacristain_ to oil the hinges.

So much had occurred since that morning nearly a year ago, when a lost soul had sought the refuge of God's House. At that time, he was able to offer His Grace and Forgiveness. Now, he would offer His Judgment and demand for Obedience. Lucien's theology had taught him they were to be held equal. But would Erik be able to submit, or risk eternal damnation?

The black leather glove on his shoulder provoked his own not inconsiderable intellect into action. Erik would resist him, using that extraordinary mind to gainsay him. _It_ would never surrender, but his heart…

"Lucien, you wish to speak to me?" Erik glanced about him, not surprised at the emptiness. Afternoons for the priest consisted of either _paroisse_ visitations or study in his library at the _presbytère_. Choosing to meet here was a bit unusual but he supposed that Lucien wanted no interruption from Mme. Camier or any _paroissiens_.

"Yes," the curé replied hesitantly. Erik seemed distracted and perhaps a bit paler. His lady's return to Paris after such a joyous holiday was proving manageable, though Lucien suspected that Erik, for the first time, was allowing the genuine emotion of loneliness to seep in through his pores. What had been painful in the abstract of his previous life was now aching in reality.

Drawing a long breath, he decided that Erik's intelligence would demand no less than a straightforward approach.

"You never told Christine of Persia. I cannot perform your marriage until she knows all."

A stiffening posture and swift icy cast in his eyes belied Erik's civil response. "Lucien, why do you assume that I have not told her all of my past?"

Lucien shifted in his chair under that uncomfortable gaze but would not be forestalled.

"Because she betrayed her ignorance to me whilst I dined with the Giry women in Paris. A jovial recital of her travels with her father drew the offhand comment that she knew from Mme. Giry that you also had traveled for a period of time but where and to what extent neither she nor Mme. Giry knew. Not knowing what to say, I covered the moment with a quip that you were a fortunate man indeed to not be burdened with an overly inquisitive wife. She gave me such a startled look that I thought she was going to ask me if I knew of your activities only to drop her eyes and change the subject."

Meeting Erik look for look he continue, "She has never asked you, I suspect, out of a sense of wishing to trust you. Erik, you must not betray her or that trust. She must know."

At that, Erik bolted up and paced around the nave, furiously turning on his heel to face his accuser. "She was never to know. I have laid enough on that dear girl's soul. It is not enough that my baronne will risk slights and jeers for this," angrily pointing to the mask on the right side of his face. "Do you have any doubt she is attempting to pray my soul out of Purgatory for my behavior at the Populaire? Would you have her tormented with being shackled to an assassin of the Shah of Persia for the rest of her life? I will ask our Lord Jesus to hold my sins but, by the Holy Virgin, not her."

Lucien countered in his most jurisprudent fashion, "You know the culpability of assassins under authority other than their own is a gray area in civil codes, much less ecclesiastical ones. The extenuating circumstances of your role further clouds the issue. The Church is still arguing the relative merits of the positions of the Dominican, St. Thomas Aquinas versus De Lugo, the Jesuit, on the subject of self-defense."

Snorting in something like amusement, Erik contradicted, "An argument worthy of a lawyer and a Jesuit, Lucien, but a bit sophistical. My hand held the lasso. Even so, Christine will not know. Brides and bridegrooms have hidden secrets from each other for centuries for the good of the marriage. If an impediment was declared in every case, there would be no marriages and a noticeable absence of numbers from the altar rail. It will be no different in this instance."

Lucien pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It is one thing for the Church to absolve your sin thought confession, repentance, and restitution, particularly as civil authorities have not sought to compound the issue. For her not to know and still wed you is a defect of consent given to what was not intended. You know Church Law as well as or better than I; it is _redundans in personam_, in this case, the defect of consent through deceit or dissimulation. Under such circumstances, her consent to wed you cannot be free. Tell her, and I will marry you anywhere de Bonnechose allows."

Erik stood as a dark looming presence before the curé, his arms crossed in defiance.

"Tell her and it will crush her. You argument is not as strong as you think. De Bonnechose can overrule you at any point; I am not such a fool to believe that the Church wishes to undermine my plans as it would _certainly_ undermine theirs."

Lucien bolted up, allowing his temper greater rein. Erik needed a sharp reminder of the Church's authority.

"If you think de Bonnechose will blithely ignore the truth being withheld from Christine then you are being a fool. De Bonnechose certainly has a political side but he began his career as a district attorney, sworn to uphold justice and protect the innocent. He will not forget for one second that she is the innocent party and will impose a _Vetitum Ecclesiae_ on the marriage until you have fulfilled the condition of laying out the entire truth to her."

Moving closer in, the younger man snarled threateningly, "And that little piece of work will destroy every shred of faith she ever built up in me, in addition to burdening her with even more of my hideous past."

"Erik, you have to make your choice."

"You're right; I do and I have."

As Erik slammed out the doors he look back, almost envisioning Dante's words from the Divine Comedy, this time engraved on the lintel instead of the Gates of Hell, seeking to mock him for daring to reach for Heaven.

_Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate _

_Abandon Hope, all ye who enter here_

§

Raoul sighed at the enormous list in front of him. Who would have thought that his decision to leave France would involve so many details? The trip to America involved packing clothing, documents of identification and acquiring passage in Le Harve. This time his travel accommodations would be quite different.

Stubbing his cigarette out in the porcelain dish on the desk, he massaged his temples, wondering for the thousandth time whether he was making the right decision. The scratch on the library door blessedly relieved him of one more round of internal arguments.

The first footman entered warily, nervous at the news he was to impart. It was rampant gossip below the stairs that the Comtesse's masked friend had not only usurped the Vicomte's rights to succeed as Comte de Chagny but had boldly made off the young master's affianced bride. Moreover, that the Vicomte seemed more disturbed by the latter than the former. Now the gentleman, Baron de Carpentier, wished to speak to him alone.

Raoul waved the footman away to fetch the newly minted Baron with an disinterest he was not feeling. What could the man possibly want now that he did not already have? Conscious of his slightly disheveled state, he pulled on his coat and smoothed back his hair with his hand.

As the footman held the door, his cousin entered, his eyes glittering in a pale, set face. Raoul motioned the servant to set a chair in front of the desk, and a quick flick of the wrist to dismiss him. He would give the downstairs no reason to gossip over this unexpected visit.

Erik stood rooted in place, measuring Raoul, wondering if he had lost his mind for what he was about to say after all that had been said between them. Words that now lodged tightly in his throat along with a lifetime of tears.

Aware of his fingers drumming on the silver cigarette case, Raoul grew weary of the silence and broke it with, "Cousin, please be seated. What an unexpected… surprise. May I offer you a cigarette?"

Looking in dazed fascination as youthful fingers expertly extracted the hand-rolled cigarette, Erik, taking the seat, shook his head in refusal, adding, "Tobacco is a filthy habit. Do you have any cigars?"

Raoul almost smiled at the incongruity of the statements and relaxed a bit. Rapier wit was far easier to tolerate when it was not aimed at one's head.

"I do not but my father keeps an exceptional _Habanos_ in that humidor on corner of the desk." Striking a match to light his own, he watched in amusement as Erik expertly cut the cigar's head with Michel's guillotine cutter, lighting it twice in the approved fashion—once horizontally in his hand, rotating in the flame to evenly warm the end and placing it in his lips to draw as he continued to rotate it in the flame. Michel used the same series of movements and gestures.

Satisfied that his cigar was properly lit, Erik crossed his legs and returned his focus to the younger man.

"De Chagny, do whatever you have to do, say whatever you have to say but take Christine away from the Populaire as soon as possible. Don't haggle with those fool managers; I will cover the cost of breaking her contract and any other expenses you incur on her behalf. Just get her away. I suggest Sweden as she knows the language well and has relatives there but England will do since I assume you know English."

Several moments passed, as Erik studied the lit cigar in his fingertips.

"She will put up an awful struggle, of course; just wear down her stubbornness with your _gifts of persuasion_."

Raoul shook off his sense of astonishment with a bark of laughter. "Cousin, if I needed any further verification of your madness, I have ample proof today. You fought me at every turn for her." _Except once…_"Your faith in my gifts of persuasion is gratifying but are you not concerned that I would used those same gifts to persuade her into matrimony?"

"I not only expect it but also am counting on it."

The impassivity in Erik's face was in sharp contrast to Raoul's evident dumbfoundment. He felt as if he had been kicked in the belly. Striving for recovery, he allowed some righteously pent-up anger to vent.

"Sir, I do not dance to your tune. And I no longer do that which I do not understand."

"You do not need to understand. I am offering her to your protection."

"Then, in spite of these flattering conditions, I must decline."

"So in order to understand you would be my confessor."

"So it would seem."

"But as my confessor you are sworn to secrecy."

"Yes, I know."

Hazy clouds of smoke dance around Erik's head as he contemplated his next words.

"Then I must tell you of Persia."

§

It had all been arranged. De Tourtier had agreed, with handsome recompense, to take up residence at the chateau in order to settle his affairs and deflect Christine when she arrived. It was not a matter of _if_…he knew her too well. The servants were told that M. le Baron was going on travels of an undetermined, though quite lengthy period, and that all questions were to be addressed to the steward. De Tourtier, in turn, was to subtly direct Mlle. Daaé to the de Chagny chateau and her future. As soon as the boy had her out of the country, he would come back to put the last of his affairs in order and disappear into his new life.

Daaé's violin rested in its open case, mocking him for his useless attempt to live as normal a life as possible for a man in his circumstance—to flourish in the love of a wife, to guard and nurture his children, to see his immortality in his grandchildren.

Lèon had brought in the crate, intending to complete its final packing for its journey in the brougham to the train depot but Erik stayed him, wishing to finish this task alone. Running his hand along the silkily varnished belly, he gently hugged it against his chest, unable to stop the tears that were now flowing down his cheeks.

"Dear friend, you cannot come where I am going and you are better served with the one who treasures you more than I, if such a thing is possible."

Placing the rest under his chin, he took up the bow and held it lightly above the strings, his eyes closed tightly as he poured his suffering into the raspy harshness of the opening notes of the allegro movement from Vivaldi's _L'hiver_.

§

Meg tried to ignore the rumble in her stomach as she began a methodical search of the opera house. It was not like Christine to forget her appointments and not meet her as the Café de l'Opera for lunch as they had agreed. So as her midsection continued its protest, she explored her dressing room, the rehearsal rooms, the business offices, anywhere the _jeunne fille_ might be.

"Christine, where are you?" Meg whispered as she contemplated that her foster sister may have left the premises in a cab. Really, she hadn't had so much trouble locating her since…

She found her kneeling on the floor of the chapel, her head bent down with her father's violin clutched against her bodice. As Meg lightly place her hand on her shoulder, Christine stirred, as if awakened from a light nap, looking up at her with huge dark eyes that reflected something beyond suffering.

"Christine, what does this mean?" Meg rasped, afraid that she did know. Erik would never part with Daaé's violin without cause.

"I know what this means. Now, I must find out why this means." Christine's hollow voice was totally devoid of any emotion, of any _music_.

"Is there no note, no explanation?"

Christine shook her head and lifted up the violin in both hands for her inspection. "This is his note," she replied dully.

Some minutes later, she reverently placed the violin in her lap, her eyes darkening with purpose compelled by despair.

"Meg, I need your cooperation. I am leaving for Bezancourt tomorrow morning by train. I will leave a letter for the managers that… that I received a telegram stating that the Comtesse de Chagny is gravely ill and I must attend to her at Fleury-sur-Andelle—they need not know that I am traveling the north spur from Gizors to Gouray-en-Bray rather than further west on the Rouen route. Even with _La Fille_ set to debut in two weeks, they will be hard pressed to protest, as professionally zealous they are of guarding the de Chagny patronage, and as personally afraid they are of Madame la Comtesse."

"But, Christine, you are going alone? What will _Maman_ say?..."

One of the musicians entered the chapel, startled at sight of Mlle. Daae holding a very fine violin. Prodded to action, she grabbed Meg's hand and rushed her back to her dressing room for some much-needed privacy.

Upon locking the door, Christine turned to her and said, "Meg, you are to tell her after my departure. There is no time to waste. It is not that unusual for a woman my age to travel alone; I can cover more ground faster. Something else has complicated the issue."

"Christine, you are not…" Meg blushed at what she was to say but in 1872 France it was more the rule than the exception for a betrothed woman.

"I am not what?" Christine questioning look finally dissolved into understanding and bitter self-mockery. "No, I am not," she replied, her mind crowded with an overwhelming why, now joined by the awareness that a disclosure that she was carrying his child might have stayed his actions, whatever his reasons.

"No, it is this. Someone in the opera house saw fit to leave this morning's edition of the Epoch's gossip page in my dressing room."

Meg read the article, her eyebrows raised nearly to the top of her forehead.

_Dear Readers, an interesting dollop of information from the Court (and supposedly Her Majesty's own lips) has come to your Author's attention involving one well-connected noble family and a certain young opera diva who shall remain nameless. It would seem that said diva has transferred her affections from the scion of the family to the recently discovered heir to the family title. _

_My sources reveal that said lawful heir was abducted as an infant and disfigured on his face while enslaved by nefarious types. Upon his escape, he is reported to have embarked upon a checkered, though lucrative career outside the confines of Europe. One might question of the timing of his reappearance on his native soil but as our Sovereign upholds his proofs and claims a debt of honor to this man's father, the government has been tasked to expedite the matter through the Conseil du Sceau, tout de suite. _

_Our lovely diva, however, remains a puzzle. Events of the past year and a half would lead you, Dear Readers, to suspect that she has consistent, though decidedly odd taste in gentlemen. Moreover, the presence of a single rather costly ring on her right hand, when it is well known at her venue of employment that she has refused countless other expensive baubles from various interested parties, surely indicates her serious attachment as well as my Court sources confirming France's newest nobleman's most honorable intentions. Dear Readers, your Author will keep you apprised of any further interesting developments, such as the posting of banns. _

"Christine, no one in Paris but _Maman_ and I know of your betrothal at present. Now, everyone will know before tonight's performance."

Her foster sister shrugged in resignation. "I had hoped to make that announcement public when my contract came up for renegotiation but it would seem Their Majesties have forced my hand for whatever reason. I am off to my bank for a cash withdrawal and to purchase my ticket. If anyone looks for me, say that I have gone home with a sore throat. I cannot deal with the gossip, now. This matter must remain personal."

"Christine Daaé, I know you; nothing will change your mind once you have set it. At least promise you will eat," Meg chided bigheartedly.

Christine's lower lip trembled at this artless reminder of concern borne out of family love. Hugging Meg tightly, she finally allowed herself the luxury of tears to express the fear and pain that her mind had held in check since opening a crate containing a violin that was more than just that.

§

The sway of Erik's brougham was one seemingly endless extension of the cadence that had started that morning at the _Saint-Lazare_ station. It continued from her train trip to Gourney-en-Bray, through the hired conveyance to Bezancourt, and now to Fleury-sur-Andelle with Jean-Louis in adamant attendance.

Fortunately, the train trip had been mercifully undisturbed, with her fellow passengers perhaps realizing that the sad-eyed young mademoiselle in her dark blue traveling toilette did not wish to be disturbed. One bearded balding gentleman of perhaps forty did glance at her often as he worked feverously over a sketchpad. She did not raise any objection. The package of bread and cheese, pressed into her hands by a worried Meg at the _Saint-Lazare_, remained undisturbed on her red velvet seat as she stepped off the car to negotiate the hire of suitable transportation.

In the faces of the Erik's servants was the reflection of her own distress and disbelief. Only M. de Tourtier remained impassive, informing her that M. le Baron had departed three days earlier without revealing his destination but expressing a wish that she present herself to the Vicomte de Chagny for any assistance. Père Maillard? He had departed the following day for Rouen.

For the next two hours, gentle caring hands undressed her, drew her bath, changed her into a carriage dress, and gently coaxed a few morsels of food into her. M. de Tourtier had argued against her attempting the 25-kilometer drive to Fleury-sur-Andelle that afternoon but she would not be dissuaded. His mention of Raoul had startled her to her core as she realized its meaning—that entrusting her care to the Vicomte could never be construed as an act of expediency on Erik's part. Judging from his past decisions, it was always an act of love.

§

Ever since his conversation with his Erik, Raoul had methodically prepared his train of arguments for Christine's inveiglement. It would take an enormous quantity of guile to break through her stubbornness but his cousin had expressed great faith in _what did he call it—his gifts of persuasion_? Everyone's future depended on his ability lead her to the right decision for her happiness.

She sat before him in the salon, alone this time, without the dark brooding presence beside her. Her extraordinary stillness gave lie to what he suspected she was experiencing internally. This was not the girl in the lair who shook with terror as his life hung in the balance but a young woman whose calm demeanor masked a fear that was every bit as real.

Christine did not mince words. "Raoul, you know where he is and why he left."

"Christine, I do not know where he is," he replied truthfully, "and I do not know why he has left," he lied dispassionately. "But I have spoken to him and he did entrust you to my care. He wishes me to remove you from France to Sweden or, perhaps, England."

"That can only mean that he never wishes to see me again."

Raoul brushed his fingers over the top of a small dome-shaped glass music box on the ornate mantel. He absently open and closed it, airing snippets of a tinkling melody. She watched in limp stupefaction his treatment of the delicate ornament, unable to tear her eyes away…

"Christine, has it occurred to you that there is much you do not know about this man with whom you would entrust the rest of your life?" Raoul continued with his maddening actions as she struggled with a need to howl at him to put the music box away before her head exploded. Its chaotic plinks dissonantly twisted with another tune that still invaded her dreams, both waking and sleeping…

_A music box in the shape of a monkey._

_A monkey in Persian robes._

_A horse with a Persian name that understood his master's Persian words._

As she dragged her eyes away to stare intently into his, she felt a fleeting spark of connectedness pass between them that she had never experienced in all their time together. Just as fleetingly, it disappeared. But it was enough to tell her what she needed to do next.

Raoul schooled his emotions behind a mask of civility at what he, too, felt. She would never know the joy and pain that moment cost him and the further expense of his next words.

"In any case, I, once more, have discovered an autocratic streak in my cousin which brooks no argument. He assumed that I would bow to his will without considering I might have prior claims upon my person. Even he must bow to the Emperor who has graciously reactivated my naval commission to the Royale. I am to report in several weeks to Cherbourg to assist in the recommisioning of the corvette _Montcalm_ for departure to China. I daresay I shall be away for any number of years."

"So you see Little Lotte, I will always think of you and our childhood times fondly but I cannot be expected to compete with a ghost. Each of us must find our own way in this life and I think it is not fated that you and I travel that road together." He laughed ingenuously at his own wordplay and added, "And mine shall not even be a road but a sea-lane."

Again, she felt the connectedness before he dropped his eyes to scrutinize at the music box still in his hands. It was enough. Touching his smooth handsome cheek, she gave it a swift kiss, adding, "God bless you, Raoul de Chagny, for every kindness you have shown your Little Lotte. I will never forget."

Raoul smiled bittersweetly in understanding and asked, "What will you do?"

"I am returning to the Populaire. There is an introduction there that is long overdue."

"You must be tired," he remonstrated. "Should you not stay the night? I am sure Mother can arrange…" Christine put her index finger to his lips and embraced him quickly before exiting the room.

Some ten minutes later, the crunch of carriage wheels echoed on the road he would not travel. Tossing the music box from hand to hand, he thought of Erik's trust in his powers of persuasion, amused that his cousin, and not he, had underestimated her stubbornness. As he held the music box in his cupped hand, he suddenly realized the aching permanency of his decisions. With that, the music box met its fate, shattered into countless pieces at the back of a fireplace.

§

For the first time in his memory, Nadir avoided the pockets of gossip that imbued the opera house. Hearsay only interested him if a kernel of truth could be plucked from its hyperbole. The rumors that the little Daaé was betrothed to Erik had become its latest exaggeration if Erik's most recent correspondence was trustworthy. Why he had broken with her was not forthcoming but he had asked that Nadir watch over her as long as she remained at the Populaire which Erik assured him would not be for any extended length of time.

Comfortably situated at the back of the theater in his favorite seat, his chin resting on the tiger's eye head of his malacca cane, the Persian started at the rustle of skirts that abruptly occupied the place beside him. The shadows under her eyes made the little Daaé seem older but there was a militant defiance in those dark eyes that would brook no argument.

"Monsieur, you have me have a disadvantage. You know who I am but I only know you as the Persian. I would like to remedy that situation as I am certain we have a mutual friend in common."

Nadir wrestled against a decided uneasiness as he studied her pale face. For years he had wandered among the denizens of this great edifice, tolerated but never included, allowed to keep his anonymity and mystery. By the martial light in her eyes, this slip of a girl was preparing to run roughshod over his comfortable existence if he was not mistaken. _Damn Erik. Why did he cut and run? The fat is in the fire now._

"Mademoiselle, pardon my manners. I am unused to being addressed directly in this setting. My name is Nadir, simply Nadir. In my country surnames are uncommon."

"M. Nadir, you must be inordinately fond of the Populaire. I can recall your presence here nearly as long as that of our mutual friend."

Did he see a flash of humor in those eyes before she demurely lowered them? Really, European women were beyond understanding.

"Mademoiselle, you speak of a mutual friend but I am not sure…"

There was nothing demure in those eyes now. There were sparks of impatience that pinned him to his seat.

"Monsieur, let us not indulge in polite vagaries. You know Erik. I am not supposed to know this. You knew Erik in Persia. I am not supposed to know this, either. The fact that I am not supposed to know any of this is why I am having this conversation with you. Erik's secrets may be more powerful that I know. But it is in the knowing that I intend to break their power."

Nadir looked at her with dawning respect for her intuitive gifts but hesitated. It might be dangerous if Erik's secrets did not remain Erik's secrets. He had no wish to cross a man with such _discriminating_ skills.

Allowing her eyes to soften, she continued, "You are afraid of him. I understand. I will not allow harm to come to you, you must believe me. But right now I am more concerned with the harm he may be doing himself."

The outcome of that night in the lair was not lost upon Nadir. Erik had been perilously close to dispatching the young Vicomte to his Maker had not the little Daaé intervened. What is more, those first few weeks at Bezancourt had revealed Erik's capacity for self-destruction. Did he trust this little one to know what she was about? He remembered his words to Erik regarding her:

"_If she is the only one who could tear those demons out of you then, Allah forgive me, perhaps her white Christian God is the only one that can save you now." _

Now, it was a matter of if her white Christian God could save her from those demons she held in check if he dared tell her of Persia.

§

Christine felt that Nadir's suggestion of their retiring to her dressing room entirely sensible if privately amusing since so few men had been allowed to cross its threshold. In light of the smirks and sly comments generated by the Epoch column, the discovery of the mysterious Persian in her private quarters would certainly guarantee another round of tongue wagging.

As she guardedly shut and locked the door, Nadir cast a discriminating eye on her renovations. They were a bit subdued to his oriental palate but more consistent than Carlotta's undisciplined tastes. It did not matter, as they would not be staying long. Their business lay behind the mirror.

Christine gasped in dismay as the Persian felt along its left rim, his fingers searching for a firm grip.

"Monsieur, what are you doing?"

"Mademoiselle, if you wish to know the truth, you will not find it in this prettily decorated room. The truth is down there."

_Flattering child, you shall know me._

"That is nonsense," she replied firmly. There are only ghosts of memories down there. Truth exists in the light of day."

"Perhaps your truth exists there but what of his?" His look was compassionate, but challenging.

_See why in shadows I hide._

Christine walked up to the mirror, gently touching its glossy surface with her fingertips. How often over the past few months it had teased and mocked her lack of courage in confronting that night? What began on the rooftop on a chilly New Year' Eve had never found its denouement.

_Look at you face in the mirror._

Standing back, she nodded her assent as he achieved enough leverage to slide the stiff, unyielding mirror on its tracks. He entered first, retrieving a box of matches from his pocket in order to light the torch that she had left in the sconce so many months ago. Beckoning her with a wave of his hand, she crossed over the threshold.

_I am there inside._

§

Twice she had walked this passageway in a state of unreality, once in wonder, once in oblivion. Now, circumstances would not afford her the emotional protection of either. As they descended through the five cellars, every wretched detail of his existence became apparent—the dank chill, the scurrying rats, the endless darkness that the torch barely disturbed. The boat was moored as Raoul and she had left it, no longer the beautiful pleasure craft of her dreams but cold and wet with torn and rotting cushions. Nadir carefully guided it to the edge of Erik's lair, or rather what was left of it. Christine nearly wept at the splintered carcass that was his organ, the torn and mildewed volumes, the rich hangings that lay in tatters on the stony floor.

"I see the mob did a rather thorough job, as most mobs are wont to do. It is my theory that the French draw upon their own revolutionary history to become so accomplished in the art of destruction of personal property," Nadir drawled with a hint of irony in his inflection. He set about righting what candles he could find, lighting them from his torch. The effect was sadly lacking but prevented the space from being plunged into total darkness.

"Mademoiselle, I rather suspect that you have not returned here since that night," motioning his torch in a arch around their surroundings. "Your faith freed Erik's soul from some of the more appalling aspects of his spiritual entrapment. But I know this man. He still fears his personal demons, not to the extent that they might harm him but what they might do to you. Something or someone has led him to believe that you are at risk. Since you approached me about Persia, it would seem that you have dismissed other possibilities. Those devils you know but this one you do not."

Holding the torch close to her face, he continued.

"So, Erik didn't tell you. In his circumstances, I am not sure I would, either. Somehow, he has been put in a position of telling you or abandoning you. How he came to this juncture is debatable but my prominent Mohammedan nose tells me that Rome somehow plays in this. Those black robes always did strike me as a bit too involved in everyone's life. Well, I have taken no oath of secrecy though I may rue this day's meddling in Erik's affairs. Perhaps, I'm a fool to trust you but you are the only person I have ever known to have any great degree of influence over him."

After drawing back the torch in order to place it in a bracket, Nadir strolled leisurely around, poking the tip of his cane at anything that interested him.

"Persia began not in Persia but at the Nijni-Novgorad Fair in Russia. Word had filtered from the caravans that a great magician was enchanting the crowds with his feats of legerdemain and angelically compelling voice. My liege, the Shah of Shahs was bored, always looking for any manner of entertainment beyond the usual pedestrian fare."

"I was tasked with the duty of persuading Erik to come to Mazenderan, offering inducements of wealth and great power. I am not sure why he accepted but he did. Our journey south was a revelation for me. This young man had abilities beyond what I had ever seen. While still in his teens, he had journeyed across Europe to India to study with the _Mantriks_. While already an accomplished magician in the European style, it is from them that he learned even greater feats, foremost to use the power of the vibrations in his voice to cast a spell over one's senses, morally unhampered as he was by its religious context. By mischance, he and some fellow disciples were met by a rogue band of professional assassins called _Thuggees_ that had escaped the final purge of the 1830's. As was their fashion, the Thuggees befriended them at first, only to kill each captive one by one. Except Erik. A European who wore a mask that covered his face from his forehead to his lips and who could learn any dialect in short order fascinated them. Sensing he might be useful, they permitted him to live among them, in particular allowing him to watch demonstrations of the yellow scarf, or _Rumal_, used in strangling victims."

Glancing over his shoulder in the midst of his exploration, Nadir made note of her extraordinary stillness as she focused intently on the glassy surface of the lake.

"Perhaps I should explain about the Thuggees. They considered assassination for gain a religious duty to their goddess Kali, a holy and honorable profession, in which morality did not come into play. Your European Catholic upbringing cannot conceive of the notion of assassins but I assure you that every country in the civilized and uncivilized world uses the services of such men. It's only that some countries, such as France, are more discreet in their judicious application than those in my corner of the world."

Nadir poked at the bust of a man head, broken in pieces on the stone floor and continued his narrative.

"Ah, I had nearly forgotten about the mask. In those days he wore a more concealing mask, which according to him, afforded him an anonymity and mystery that he used to his advantage. Orientals do no fear masks as Westerners do; in fact, he was able to move about quite freely among us. His present mask is a compromise to what I see as overly acute European sensibilities and perhaps out of deference to the feelings of one young mademoiselle."

Hazarding another glance, he noticed a shiver run down her back at his last words, her gaze still upon the waters.

"In any case, the Thuggees learned to their chagrin the masked European could play their game but by his rules. He swiftly adapted the technique of the clumsy though ceremonial _Rumal_ to a lasso, able to eliminate one-on-one rather than the two to three thugs it took to bring down an unsuspecting traveler. The chagrin was that he did not use his skills to improve theirs, but rather to make his escape from their dubious hospitality."

"His travels took him east to China and west to Russia where his unique talents both afforded him all the luxuries of life and protection from some of its baser elements. My tales of Persia intrigued him with its wealth and concentrated power in its ruler. That was one of the rare critical errors in his reasoning. Centralized power was power that could abuse most readily."

"And there was the ruler behind the ruler, the Little Sultana."

"A court magician and advisor was all fine and well but it was Erik's gift with the lasso that intrigued her. The ruling family had enemies that needed elimination and she had found her perfect angel of destruction. Erik, of course, understood killing in self-defense but had no desire to bloody his hands in political assassination with so many others eager to fill the position for personal gain. The Little Sultana was clever. Turning Erik into an assassin would bring him into her spider's web of treachery. Offers of increased wealth did not interest him so she sought other methods. Refusals were met with consequences, though not to his person. She knew better than to be so crude—at least at that point. At first it was the beheading for some trifling offence of a little servant girl who cleaned his suite in the palace. As more died, so did his will to deny the Little Sultana. He became her personal assassin, dispatching family enemies and religious activists at her command for assignments requiring the most finesse. If she felt his reluctance, she would find a new sacrificial lamb that catered to what she mockingly called his European Christian fastidiousness. I sometimes wondered if her use of him was less for political expediency than a need to abuse him in her desire to strike back at the encroaching ways of the West that he symbolized to her."

"The Little Sultana's overweening ego finally ended this chapter of Erik's life. Killing servants had become inefficient. She needed to ensure Erik's obedience for all time, sensing that he was planning his escape in spite of being kept under constant observation. My friendship with the European had not gone unnoticed. As Daroga, or as you would say, chief inspector, of Mazenderan, I had grown accustomed to utilizing Erik's extraordinary ability to garner information and in turn taught him to navigate the uncertain waters of Court life."

"She felt the need to obtain a decisive victory over Erik's will and planned her attack accordingly, not considering that he might counterattack."

The Persian unearthed a relatively undamaged chair from the debris, and rested in it. As he stared at the tiger's eye handle, the lines in his face deepened sorrowfully in memory…

"When I found them, they looked so peaceful, as in a deep sleep. My wife and three children. Erik has dined with us on occasion, showing appropriate respect for her observance of _hijib_, playful with the children, entertaining them with magic and the like. Erik thought the use of poison feminine in its deceit but knew the Little Sultana to be a mistress of the art. She used my family as her finest canvas."

"I do not clearly remember what happened after that point. Erik made all the decisions for me. By some means, he spirited us out of Persia, through bribes and the judicious use of two bodies obtained from grave robbers. Obtaining a suitable European was not as difficult as you might imagine as Persia was becoming overrun with them at the time. It was his cursed height that might have given away the game. He told me he did the best he could but his double might have been slightly undersized. In any event it was not hard to imagine that in the course of escape, the Daroga of Mazenderan and the Little Sultana's personal assassin might have other enemies who also wished them harm—enemies who mutilated their bodies and tossed them in the Caspian for good measure. In the end, Erik had his freedom and his revenge in the form of a king's ransom in jewels that he pilfered from the Royal family. Jewels served as collateral for the huge personal loans the Shah of Shahs contracted with foreign interests—the disappearance of a number of select pieces was not permanently damaging but certainly inconvenient for a cash-strapped monarch. Those jewels were our companions back to Europe, put in the vault of the _Schweizerische Kreditanstalt_ in Zurich, held awaiting sale in discreet increments and invested with skill. Erik appreciated the discretion in the Swiss banking industry but the impracticality of distance forced him to conduct business locally with _Crédit Industriel et Commercial_ and _Société Générale_."

Forced by restless energy to move again, he sprang up and continued his examination of the lair artifacts with his cane.

"I do not look like a wealthy man, living as I do in a small flat, but inside is everything of the finest. I have ample means to travel and indulge in any kind of entertainment of which Paris has to offer. Erik wanted to divide the profits of the jewels evenly but what need do I have of so much money? Eventually, he came to a better decision—clandestinely directed retributions to the families of his victims in Persia and discreet funds provided over the years to augment the income of a widow with one natural daughter and one foster daughter who was left penniless by an improvident father. I handled most of his contacts and he directed my investments to great purpose—bonds, trains, mining—just recently he caught rumor of _De Rothschild Frères_ sniffing around Spanish copper mines. But surely, this is boring to a young mademoiselle like yourself…"

Nadir turned from his prodding at the tattered hangings to the sight of Christine hunched over the lake, retching violently into its smoky mists.

§

As the Persian held her head, gently wiping her face with his linen handkerchief, it occurred to her that Mohammedans did not touch women who were not closely related to them, groggily wondering if years in Europe had broken down some taboo in him. Yet for all of his religion's exaggerated courtesy to women, he had lived in a country that sanctioned cold-blooded political murder and had transformed Erik into one of their own.

"Mademoiselle, are you able to stand?" he asked with the gentlest of solicitude, guiding her to the chair at her nod. "Curse my undisciplined tongue; I am not used to speaking of such blunt matters to delicate young ladies. There must be a better way to tell you this story but I did not have the refinement to do so."

"Monsieur, my mind prefers the undistorted truth even if my body refuses to cooperate. I fear there was no way it would be otherwise," she replied hoarsely.

"So now you know, mademoiselle, what Erik would have spared you. Buquet deserved to die if ever a man did and Piangi was a victim of his own excesses. But I realize that in your religion this cannot be treated so lightly."

"Erik killed but he was not a murderer. He was caught in a situation beyond his control whose only solution was the forfeiture of his own life. Your Christian religion would say that one life is a small price for the salvation of many but these poor souls would have died anyway in a fit of the Little Sultana's rage if Erik had chosen that path."

"For most of his life, Erik worshipped at the altar of his own survival, such as it was. Your religion meant nothing to him until your actions made it mean everything. In contrast, his newly embraced faith has taught him to forfeit his life to and with you rather than risk something far more precious than your life—to risk your very soul with the evil of his past."

"He would never ask you to bear this; indeed, he would do all possible to prevent such an occurrence. You can walk away from here, knowing that you made something possible in him that was not possible before. You God will honor your sacrifice and, in His Mercy, guard Erik."

Christine looked at him, the pleading in her dark eyes unmistakable. His daughter would be close to her age had she lived. She, too, had such large brown eyes that spoke everything. He could no more help Christine than he could raise up that long dead child. The little Daaé must find her own way in her spiritual wilderness.

She rose slowly, taking measured steps to the shattered mirrors in whose reflection her face posed endless possibilities. _Holy Mother, what should I do?_ She was so confident she could handle the truth only to have it jeer at her, at her weakness, at her conventionality, at her now questionable religiosity. The price of sharing a life with Erik was to endure the oppression of this knowledge for the rest of her life.

A rustle to her right drew her eye to the mannequin now knocked sideways in the alcove, no doubt through the actions of an impatient mob. _Probably rats_, she surmised, now more curious of this lifeless doppelganger who had shared her wedding dress than fearful of any vermin. The motionless figure looked a bit worse for wear and strangely _alone_ without her finery. Christine set about arranging her into a better semblance of a human being but without success. Frustrated with her efforts she pulled it forward, only to have her hand catch on some piece of fabric snagged on the back of the corset. With a gingerly pull, she felt her hands swimming in lengths of netting and wax orange blossoms. _Her wedding veil!_ Somehow, in the chaos of that night it had slipped protectively behind the mannequin, revealing itself nearly a year later in pristine condition.

_How was it possible with the dank decay all around her that this survived intact?_

Shaking out its folds, she impulsively attached it to her curls, studying the effect in the broken pieces of glass.

Nadir held his breath as her actions, realizing a meaning in them beyond what was apparent.

_Erik was wrong. After all that they had endured, she would not be crushed by this and neither would he. Love was not so easily defeated. Forces seen and unseen in the Communion of Christ's Church would mitigate this threat even if they never knew the whole story. This had been their purpose for nearly two thousand years._

With the veil now removed and folded neatly over her left arm, she gestured towards the boat with renewed strength.

"Come, Monsieur Nadir, we must return. I need remind my errant bridegroom that his bride awaits."

The Persian bowed his assent to that and something more. This dreamy princess was becoming a queen.

Abruptly frowning, he remembered, "Mademoiselle, you can tell him nothing if you do not know where he is."

"Put your mind at ease, Monsieur. I do know where he is."

§

"Raphael, you were gone an unconscionable time. Did one of the other canons waylay you to make a repair? Never mind, I was able to work on other portions of the sketches but I do need those measurements." The man in the white habit continued sketching throughout his exchange, his back turned to the door through which he expected his collaborator to return.

Erik's hand arrested in midair as he realized that Raphael was not known for smelling of violets.

With a bitter grimace at the sketch before him, he continued, "If I were not in the process of dismantling my business affairs, I should see to the termination of a certain steward's appointment as the first order of business."

Smiling faintly at the back of his head, Christine replied, "Your steward did not tell me. Once I understood your reason for leaving then I knew where I would find you."

Erik rose slowly from his chair and turned to face her, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the table, his eyes frosty in an unmasked face grim with resolve.

"Then either Lucien or de Chagny told you. Since in his professional capacity, Lucien was under oath, I daresay de Chagny broke his promise. I had hoped better of him."

He was not prepared for this, that she would find him. Willekens should have never let her on the grounds. Her every expression, every movement was a temptation. He would not weaken now.

"Raoul did not tell me. Whatever deal you contrived with him was of your own devising, and not his. It would see that he failed to inform you that he had a prior commitment—his recommission in the Royale. Something he said, however…never mind. I cast my thoughts around for someone who might have a clue as to your actions and came up with the Persian."

Erik laughed bleakly at her cunning. "Christine, all the time I have known you, you have never ceased to amaze me. To my knowledge, you have not had one word of conversation with the man. What could an eccentric Persian reveal to you about me?"

"That which you did not. He did not wish to speak freely; I believe he is a little afraid of you. But his affection for you is greater than his fear." She started forward, halting only when he drew himself up rigidly to his full height, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Events in Persia taught him to be a "little afraid" of me. Moreover, I do not now what affection has to do with anything he told you."

"So now you know the whole disgusting story. Why are you here? Innocent young women do not willingly share the same air with assassins. And I was a very _proficient_ assassin, Christine."

"You speak in the past tense. You are not an assassin now," she replied coolly.

"Neither am I a sophist. It is now an issue that hangs between us," he countered.

"Are you saying that God cannot forgive you? Your presence here gives lie to that. That I cannot forgive you? You did not sin against me."

"No and no. My physical scars are burden enough for you. Yet I also must bear the scars of my sins and _these_ I would not risk inflicting on you in any way."

"My Angel, you own my heart but you do not own my soul. What I choose to incur is between my Creator and me. You have no right to interfere."

He stood before her, flinching at her last remark, but resolute. She had not run when she knew the truth but he had when faced with the choice of telling her. _He was afraid_. Just as he was afraid when he sent her away after she had kissed a man edging toward the precipice of Hell.

Her voice now shaking with anger, she challenged, "Shall I name your tormentor? Is it that you are afraid that I will come to despise, even fear you?"

Unable to face her accusation, Erik looked down to study the patterns in the stone floor with an agony that threatened to spill over his cheeks. To have won her love, only to have it turn into a mockery of itself was unbearable. He would spend the rest of his life alone rather than endure it.

"Erik, you and I should not be facing each other today," she spoke, regaining some of her composure. "By all rights, you should be dead and I a Vicomtesse whose petted and cosseted life could never hide a nagging despair. There are forces at work here that I do not quite understand, benevolent forces that have cleared obstacles for us to be together. Now, other forces are at work, forces I recognize well _from the other time_. They would tear us apart by preying on our fears as they did before."

"I will not be afraid. I choose to love. But I cannot make that choice for your soul, Erik; only you can. You fought them once and won. Would you let them win so easily now?"

She walked toward him slowly, taking his face in her hands, and kissing his lips gently, giving him the strength of her love, which defeated him before and now. Wrapping his arms around her tightly, his lips pressed to her forehead while he paused to give silent thanks to St. Michael the Archangel for the miracle of so gentle an earthly protector.

§

Raphael was still a bit dazed as he and Abbé Willekens watched the carriage leave for the train station. The beautiful Mlle. Daaé had shaken his hand warmly in departure, impulsively turning back to kiss his disfigured cheek. No woman outside his immediate family had ever acted so and it was all he could do to keep his tears in check as they waved goodbye. But with the tears came the recognition that Erik would be allowed to walk with the angel the Almighty had set in place for him.

Abbé Willekens gave Raphael another sideways looked, satisfied that the younger canon seemed more at peace with this departure than one that occurred months before.

"Well, Brother Raphael, I believe we have completed a good work today. Erik has accepted that it is his call to be out in that world. I will admit to you now that I was not as confident of my words before, but this time it will different. Difficult, but different. Still, he will not be alone. She will make sure of that."

Willekens returned to the Abbey, leaving Raphael to watch as the carriage drew further away from the Mountain of God. With a sigh of contentment, he withdrew Erik's present to him from the capacious pockets of his tunic. The white leather mask, alternately a symbol of fear and power to Erik, now appeared ineffective and ridiculous to him. He tossed it back and forth between his hands, whistling an old Norman folk tune as he sauntered back to his workshop.


End file.
